


Two Dead Men and A(nother) Baby

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alpha Harold Finch, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Belly Rubs, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, John Reese's Bulletproof Harold Finch Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Morning Sickness, Mpreg, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega John Reese, Pining, Pregnant Character Continues Canonical Perilous Activity Despite Pregnancy, Pregnant John Reese, Season/Series 02, Touch-Starved, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-20 19:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 47,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18531823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: John gets pregnant. Harold steps in. The numbers (almost) never stop coming.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rudigersmooch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudigersmooch/gifts).



> I played with several of your freeforms, but especially the "Supporting Their Pregnant Partner (Baby Not Theirs)" one. When I saw that one in your request, my brain lit up like a Christmas tree and went, "Harold would be the absolute _best_ if John got pregnant, even if it was somebody else's baby." I never expected it to wind up this long, though. Oops.
> 
> I really hope you like it.
> 
> This starts between "Booked Solid" and "Relevance" in Season Two, and zigzags in and out of canon-compliance from there.
> 
> Content Notes: John continues working the numbers for a while after learning of his pregnancy, suffering a few of his canon injuries (shot in the vest and the like) along the way. He also has some nightmares about violent pregnancy loss, and he angsts and panics a lot (including some panic attacks). Also, there are mentions of violence against pregnant people in some scenes, there's talk about genetic testing and whatnot for the kid due to John's age, and there are discussions of Harold's father's dementia. And there are canon minor character deaths mentioned.
> 
> Everything turns out great for John, Harold, and the kid, though.

Physical pain is something John can tolerate. It makes sense—the warning cry of agitated nerves in the face of injury or illness. He can handle pain, especially something as mild as his body's new tendency toward headaches. Fatigue, too. He's got a lot of practice with sleepless nights, and, much as he hates to admit it, he really isn't getting any younger. Constant exhaustion might as well be an old friend.

It's the nausea that tells him something is wrong.

Vague and lingering queasiness becomes a nightmare over the course of several weeks. His life goes from revolving around the numbers to revolving around the nausea—gut-wrenching, brutal nausea, an almost constant sour roiling in the middle of his belly. One wrong smell, one wrong food, one wrong _move_ , and John's left clutching his gut and desperately sucking down air far more often than someone with his level of training in hiding every vulnerability should. Or worse.

Just thinking of that "worse" outcome makes his stomach heave again. He's always hated vomiting more than any kind of pain.

This is his old life catching up with him, ready to deliver what he deserves: a miserable ending. It's fitting that it comes with hellish nausea. And any day now, it's going to _hurt_ , in a way he can't just tolerate. His distended guts are going to rot out, he's going to die an agonizing death in a gutter or on the floor of his fancy loft, and Harold is going to have to replace him.

Harold. That's the part of this that gets to John. Harold is a good man, a good boss, a good _friend_. Far better than someone like John deserves. He's saved John from the CIA, that bomb vest, John himself. Every new number is another lifeline, and John hates that he's going to have to tell Harold that they weren't enough. That he's going to lose another friend.

So he tries to keep it hidden. Harold can't know that he's sick, that he's dying.

He really should've known better. Even Bear had realized something was amiss, becoming more protective of John and frequently sniffing John's belly. If Bear noticed, of course an expert in secret-keeping would notice, too.

The day after they wrap up that case at the Coronet Hotel, he's caught hugging the toilet in the Library's downstairs women's bathroom—the one they almost never use. He isn't the slightest bit surprised. It was wishful thinking to imagine he could keep a secret from Harold, especially a secret like this.

He half-expects Harold to ask if he's fallen into his old drinking habits. Instead, Harold says, quiet and gentle, "Have you considered taking a pregnancy test, Mr. Reese?"

John whirls around to face him. His stomach disapproves. "What?"

Harold's expression is as kind as his tone. "Your stomach's been troubling you for a number of weeks now. I've seen you holding it many times when you thought I wasn't looking."

John groans. Of course Harold's seen it. Harold sees everything, probably caught him on a security camera or something.

But the pregnancy sickness thing is called _morning_ sickness, isn't it? "It's not morning."

"'Morning sickness' is a misnomer," Harold says, because Harold somehow always seems to know something about everything. "It can occur at any time of day—or even all day, in some unfortunate people. I'm guessing it's why you've been cutting our connection more often than usual recently as well—to try and hide the vomiting." John doesn't deny it. And there's no hint of accusation in Harold's voice, just concern. Harold's worried about him.

"It's probably just a stomach bug, Finch," John lies. It's been going on way too long for that, though, and they both know it. But he's in his forties—and not his early forties, either. He's had unprotected heat sex before—completely unprotected, many times—and never conceived. With a miserable laugh, he adds, "I'm definitely not pregnant."

"I'm familiar with the symptoms of pregnancy," Harold says, "and you seem to be experiencing _several_ of them. The headaches, the fatigue..." He gestures toward the toilet. "The obvious."

John laughs again. It's ridiculous. People his age don't _accidentally_ get pregnant...do they? "Harold, don't you think I'm a bit too old for—"

"Would you rather this be a sign of some dreadful, fatal illness?" Harold asks, mildly. "I'm sure that's what you've dismissed this as, is it not?"

Something else John can't deny. He schools his face into a neutral expression.

"I know how old you are," Harold says. "I _also_ know that you experienced a significant disruption in your medication schedule recently, courtesy of Agent Donnelly and Ms. Stanton, which could have had a major impact on the efficacy of your medications. And I know what the statistics say: It's not impossible for an omega to become pregnant at your age. It's significantly less likely, yes, but not impossible.

"Take a pregnancy test, John. Just in case."

Pregnancy. It's a big enough deal that it has Harold calling him "John." John turns the idea over in his head, and it hits him with a gut punch of fear. No, it's not impossible, is it? _Shit._

Neither Donnelly nor Kara had given a damn about him needing his suppressants. He'd gone into heat for the first time in years not very long after Rikers and the bomb vest. And, just like Harold said, there was a chance that the whole hormonal clusterfuck that brought on had made his other pills useless, too.

Nothing cut an inconvenient heat off fast like a good knotting. He'd gone to an anonymous heat club, and had spent the night tied to some young alpha. It was supposed to be the easy way out. He'd never gotten pregnant before, he was on birth control, and, dammit, he was getting old. Too old for this, he'd thought.

Him, pregnant.

_"You ever crave a more conventional life?"_

Harold's probably right, isn't he?

_"Be nice to have a child. Children."_

Harold is usually right.

_"Think that'll ever happen?"_

Oh, God, a person like him can't have a _baby_...

John's stomach tries to escape again. This time, after a few nervous, quickly-withdrawn touches, there's a comforting hand rubbing his back and a soft voice murmuring soothing nonsense as he dry heaves, then a cool, wet washcloth for him soon after he's done.

"I also have some peppermint tea steeping for you," Harold says, as John wipes his face. "It always seemed to hel—it's supposed to help with morning sickness, I've heard. Would you like me to bring it down here, or do you think you can make it back upstairs?"

"I can make it," John says. A wave of dizziness as he gets to his feet almost makes a liar of him. He sways alarmingly, but catches himself on the stall door before Harold finishes grabbing for him. "I'm okay, Finch."

Harold eyes him with obvious skepticism, but doesn't comment, and John silently thanks him by pretending he didn't hear Harold's slip-up.

It's an interesting puzzle to toy with. Someone Harold knew was pregnant once, and it was someone he knew well enough to know what helped their morning sickness. Not Harold himself—Harold's an alpha, and if John's nose has been reading him right, a sterilized one; something only a tiny percentage of the omega population can detect through scent. And he can't see Harold leaving a child of his own behind while still playing "Uncle Harold" to Nathan Ingram's son—

Ingram. Of course. And that's even more interesting. One of the world's wealthiest, most prominent businessmen might've been an omega, with an alpha doing the huge projects behind the scenes. And no one knew. If the world had known Ingram was an omega, every news article about him in existence would've described him as _"omega Nathan Ingram."_ None of the ones John had read did. To keep something like that a secret...

Impressive, Finch. Very impressive.

But that doesn't keep hold of John's mind long enough. By the time he's following Harold out of the bathroom—and even with his limp, Harold is more steady on his feet than John right now—his sick stomach has already dragged his attention back to the puzzle of his own body. Like Harold did, he puts the symptoms together. They add up to the same conclusion. It's so obvious now that John can't believe he didn't think of it himself.

 _Didn't think of it_ , he wonders, pressing a hand to his lower belly, _or didn't **want** to think of it?_

In a fair universe, a killer like him wouldn't be able to get pregnant. Instead he'd get what he deserved, which sure as hell wasn't a child. He'd get a slow, painful death—or worse—in a hole somewhere, alone. He'd never get anything he wanted as badly as a baby.

Maybe Harold's wrong. Maybe the universe will be fair for once. Maybe he's not pregnant.

"Whatever the results," Harold says, handing him a steaming mug that smells of mint, "and whatever you decide to do about them, I'd like you to know that you have my full support. All right?"

But a good man like Harold being his friend is a sure sign of the unfairness of the universe.

John forces himself to nod.

* * *

Harold is right, of course.

John takes six pregnancy tests. He starts with one, the cheapest, then goes out to buy another after he gets the first result, then goes back for more after that. _"Be thorough, Mr. Reese,"_ the Harold Finch in his head says. The tests get steadily more expensive. He can afford them.

His hands shake more every time he hands over his credit card.

"You all right, hon?" the white-haired, Southern woman working at the register asks the second time he comes in. Georgia accent. Name tag says "Maureen." Beta. The kinds of observations he can't help making, automatic as breathing.

 _No_ , he wants to say. He flashes her a smile, and hopes it's not the one that scares people. "I'm fine."

When he comes back for the last time, she tosses a dark chocolate Milky Way into his bag and says, "It's on me, kid."

Kid? John tries not to laugh hysterically, or worse, cry. Oh, God, he's too old to be called "kid," too old to be having a kid, way too old to be having a pregnancy scare—is it really a "scare" anymore, with every test coming up positive?—like a teenager. Hell, he didn't even have any pregnancy scares when he _was_ a teenager.

He thanks Maureen for the chocolate, but really means _Thank you for caring_.

"Whatever those things say," she says, like she knows what he means, "you'll be all right."

All six tests say the same damn thing, in different ways: A plus sign. A blue line. Two pink ones. A digital smiling face. A blunt, simple "Pregnant." He tries very hard not to think of the word "baby," and he taps his earpiece.

"What does this mean for the numbers?" he asks when Harold answers, not bothering to elaborate.

After a moment, Harold says, "I take it the test was positive, then." When John doesn't reply, Harold continues, "In an ideal world, if you decided to continue the pregnancy, you would go on leave for the duration, or perhaps assist me on my end of things, and someone else would take care of protecting the numbers until you returned."

"And in this one?" He already knows the answer—too many people out there need help for him to stop. Fusco and Carter can handle things in a pinch, but they have jobs, families, _lives_. They can't do 24 hour recon, can't break anywhere near as many laws, can't be given all of the details of how they get the numbers. And with Kara's virus out there, John has a feeling things are going to get a lot more complicated soon.

"In this one, unless you wish to step back—which I would fully support, and I strongly encourage you to consider it, by the way, if you're planning on going through with this—I suppose we'll have to find ways to minimize the risks." Harold sighs. "I must admit, I am very deeply uncomfortable with this plan. I don't like the idea of sending someone who's expecting a child into dangerous situations."

A child. John has to sit down on the edge of the tub. He'd been hoping Harold wouldn't say "child" or "baby," or anything else that would remind him of what being pregnant _meant_. He feels sick again. A baby. What business does someone like him have having a _baby?_ He's a killer, a monster. He shouldn't be pregnant. It shouldn't be possible.

"Do you know what you intend to do," Harold says, "or do you need some time to consider your options?"

Options. Options like ending the pregnancy—no, that's not an option; not for him. Options like having a _baby_ , then.

"I can't have a baby, Finch," he says.

"All right," Harold says. "I won't think less of you if you have an abortion. I hope you know that. I promise you, you'll have my total support."

"I can't do that, either." John lets out a mirthless laugh. "But I can't have a kid. I shouldn't—" He chokes on the sentence before he even finishes his thought, and repeats, "I shouldn't."

Harold goes quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, he says, "Oh, John," with a softness that makes John's chest _ache_. "If you want to have this baby, of course you should. You'd be an incredible father."

Father—him? Oh, God...

Terror's starting to set in. A baby, inside him, unaware of who it's growing in. God. His heart pounds. His hands shake. He feels like he's falling, a dizzying drop in his guts every time he thinks _baby_. He's faced down war, torture, countless knives and guns and explosives, thousands of different ways to die, but there's a _baby_ growing inside him. There's a baby. Inside him. A tiny, helpless baby, and it's _his_.

Father? He can't be someone's _father_.

 _Calm down_ , he orders himself. He takes a deep breath, and tries to compose his mind. It's just like facing any other threat. Calm down, assess the situation, deal with it. Except there's very little chance that a bullet or a bomb will ever look up at him with undeserved admiration and call him "daddy."

Daddy. He could be a child's daddy. A little girl or boy with dark hair and blue eyes could look up at him one day and see only their loving dad.

His trembling hands go to his lower belly, cradling it, even though it's impossible to tell that something's different. His kid is in there somewhere—his _kid._

Worse than the terror, much crueler, is the longing, a deep, primal feeling that's almost as breath-stealing as the fear. He'd love to be a father, has always wanted a child or two. At his age, this is his only shot. And he wants this baby.

Why couldn't this have happened years ago, when he was still a halfway decent person, not John Reese?

He can't keep the baby. He _wants_ , wants so much it's agony, but he can't keep it, can't breathe, can't, can't, shouldn't... "I can't do this. Finch—Harold, I can't.. _._ "

 _Control yourself. Breathe. Assess the situation, then deal with it._ It's not working. Goddammit, why isn't it working?

"I'm coming over, John," Harold says, and an overwhelming wave of relief sweeps over John. Harold will help. Harold always helps. That should probably scare the shit out of him—that much trust—but it doesn't. There are more frightening things to deal with than unwavering faith in another person, like him having a fucking _baby_.

"And then we'll talk this through," Harold continues, "all right?"

What is there to talk about? He's pregnant. If nothing happens, he could become someone's father. And then he'd screw it up spectacularly.

The first thing Harold says when he arrives is, "You won't be doing any of this alone," as he follows John to the couch. "As I said to you before, whatever you decide to do, you have my full support. Anything you need—anything that's within my power to provide—I will give it to you. All you have to do is ask."

He can't help but feel that Harold doesn't get it. It's not a matter of needs or capabilities. The mechanics of childrearing—John can do that. But Carter's incredulous, _"You trust him with a baby?"_ overheard on the comms when they were caring for Leila, runs through his head. People usually trust omegas with babies, but not him. No one should trust him with a baby.

Especially a baby of his own.

"It won't be enough," he says.

"Are you underestimating my abilities, or just your own?" Unexpectedly, Harold puts his hand on John's shoulder and gives it an awkward pat. Without thinking, John leans toward it, craving the contact, and Harold lets the hand linger. "I know you don't think of yourself as a good person," Harold continues, and, oh, maybe Harold does understand, "but you are. I wouldn't tell you you'd make a good father if I thought you were unfit to be a parent."

John lets out a dark, bitter chuckle. "After everything I've done?"

"After everything you've done," Harold says, "I think you have a unique perspective that will be immensely helpful when teaching your child right from wrong, and when teaching them how to make good choices and how to be a good person.

"You're great with children. You were so good with Leila, and Darren, and Taylor. And Bear—I'm fairly certain he thinks of himself as your child sometimes." John manages a weak laugh at that. "I can't imagine you not being a wonderful father to your own baby. So, if you want to have this baby, have the baby, and if you want to keep it, keep it. Don't let your fears get in the way of your happiness."

That catches his attention. He studies Harold's face, but all he sees is concern. _Is that what you did?_ he almost asks, especially when he catches that muted, sterilized alpha scent again. And then it slips out anyway. "Is that what you did?"

Harold is an expert at hiding his emotions, but John catches the slight widening of the eyes. It's still impossible to interpret—surprise at John's conclusion, at being caught out, something else. Then, to John's surprise, Harold says, "Not in this area of my life, no," and—stunning him further—adds, "I had a very good reason for choosing not to have children. I've never regretted making that decision."

"Will you ever tell me the reason?" John asks.

"Perhaps," Harold says, instead of an outright refusal. Then, he changes the focus back to John. "I will tell you this, however: If you decide to keep the baby, you won't regret making the decision. I promise."

Harold sounds so certain of that. John can't help an awkward laugh. "What makes you so sure?"

In a light tone, Harold replies, "Because I know everything about you, Mr. Reese."

Harold's voice turns serious again as he says, "I don't mean to pry, but I'm afraid I have to ask: Will the other parent be an issue?"

The other parent. God. "No. I—" John runs a hand over his face. Now that that's come up, he feels _stupid._ "I fucked up, Finch. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Harold repeats. "Whatever for? You're allowed to have a life outside the numbers."

"Maybe I shouldn't be," John says. "He was anonymous. Heat club. I don't know his name." And now he's carrying the guy's kid. He lets out a miserable huff of a laugh. "Stupid."

"Heat is a biological impulse as old as—no, older than—our species, John, and your suppressants weren't working; what chance did you possibly have against that?"

God, how the hell is Harold still being so _kind?_ This pregnancy is going to fuck everything up spectacularly. Why isn't he pissed?

"Your medication failed," Harold continues, "due to circumstances beyond your control, and it happened to lead to a pregnancy. You did nothing wrong, and you certainly have nothing to apologize for."

John doesn't know what to say to that. Instead, he says something else. "I'm surprised you don't already know the guy's name."

After a moment, Harold says, "Despite what you may think, I'm not constantly monitoring you. While you were in heat, for instance, I discontinued my surveillance of you entirely for the duration."

"Really?" Harold hasn't been watching his every move? Huh.

"I do respect your privacy, John. You've certainly earned it." Before John can react, Harold adds, "Though for safety's sake, I might monitor you more closely again for the coming months. A lot can go wrong during a pregnancy."

John thinks about that for a moment, thinks about other things. He doesn't know much about pregnancy, but he gets the basics. He'll be sick for a while, his belly will grow big, someone will start kicking and moving inside it like an alien. Supposedly his ankles will swell up, he'll want to eat gross food combinations, he'll scream at anyone that looks at him funny and cry over ridiculous stuff, or maybe a lot of that's just made up for TV and the movies—God, he hopes so.

Then after a lot of pain and some blood or maybe a surgery, a baby—a _human being_ —will come out of him. Or it could all go wrong, badly wrong, the kind of wrong that'll make him wish he'd really had a terminal illness instead. But if it goes right...

"This is gonna be tough, isn't it?" he says. "No matter what I do."

"Yes," Harold replies. "But we've already handled a baby together. I don't see why we won't be able to handle another one, and the pre-baby stage as well."

A tiny flicker of hope flares to life in John's chest. "We?"

"We," Harold repeats. "I may not be the best option for support in this situation, but you don't have to go through this alone if you don't want to."

John bites his lip. _Thank you_ , he wants to say, but the words won't come out. He manages a nod, and hopes Harold understands.

* * *

Healthy snacks start to appear in John's refrigerator the next day—pre-sliced fruits and vegetables, only the ones he knows Harold is sure he likes. They show up in the Library fridge, too. John can't help smiling whenever he sees or grabs them. Most people don't take care of him, except for the many attempts to do it in the euphemistic sense...but Harold does.

There's also a list of foods and drinks to avoid during pregnancy stuck to John's fridge with a magnet. John looks it over. He can live without most of the things on the list. Coffee and booze turn his stomach now, as do eggs both runny and not, and sushi of all kinds brings back too many memories of Kara. Having to stick to well-done meat sort of offends his amateur chef side—and will definitely scandalize Harold—but he can live with it. Cold cuts, though? Soft cheese? Seriously?

Just what he needed: More additions to his massive collection of things to be paranoid about.

Harold also starts bringing him meals—always easy on his unsettled stomach, always nutritious, always free of foods that are on The List. Never anything starring eggs, either, and how Harold picked up on that sudden aversion, John doesn't know. Surveillance, probably. It's Harold. His definition of respecting someone's privacy is different from most people's. He probably knows John's eating habits better than John himself. But however he figured it out, John appreciates it.

At first, Harold looks like he's bracing himself for a bad reaction, and tries to pass feeding him off as keeping them both in good health, while giving John a hesitant half-smile. John can't help but think Harold would be disappointed if he turned the offerings down. But John's sincere "thank yous" seem to put him at ease, turning the half-smiles full. After a while, it becomes the new normal, just like everything else Harold does for him.

John knows he should be bothered by it—he _can_ take care of himself—or suspicious. He's surprised to realize he isn't. It's _nice_ to be treated like this, like someone gives a damn about him and his kid, because they do. It's an unspoken, _You're valued. You're important. You matter._

And Harold has already given him so much more than possessions and a loft apartment and a full belly. Harold gave him a second chance, a _life_. So he can damn well accept the kindness Harold is so determined to give him.

He could do without the suspicious glances Harold gives the cups from the coffee shop every morning, though, and, after a few days of silent observation, the terse, "You're supposed to be avoiding caffeine, Mr. R—"

"Relax, Finch," he says, setting Harold's tea within easy reach. "It's just ginger." He doesn't mention that the smell of coffee alone makes him sick. Thank God Harold is a tea drinker. He doesn't think he could make it to the Library every day with cups of coffee.

Harold's expression softens into sympathy. "Of course. I'm sorry. Is that working better for you than the mint?"

"Not sure yet," John replies, honestly, with a shrug, and takes another sip of the sweet and spicy tea. He'd just gotten bored of peppermint. "Ask me again later."

Ginger does seem to help a tiny bit more, and John says so. Later that afternoon, a tin of dried ginger appears next to the tins of peppermint tea and Harold's sencha that sit near the electric kettle, along with a box of ginger hard candies. After trying one, John pockets a handful. Harold looks pleased when he spots the opened box, and John savors the warm feeling he gets at the sight of Harold's tiny smile.

That night, John sees online that Maureen the cashier's first lottery ticket has paid off handsomely. Harold says nothing. He doesn't need to. Just another example of Harold's version of respecting someone's privacy.

* * *

They get two numbers right after he finds out, both ISA agents. One doesn't make it. The other shoots John in the chest.

He hasn't seen Harold so horrified over a shooting since the CIA got him. John tries and fails to reassure him, and pretends to be unfazed. "She just got my vest," he insists, to them both. "I'm fine."

In the end, they save Sameen Shaw (beta, age redacted) without her shooting him again. They let her "die," she scares the hell out of Leon Tao, and she ditches them in a cemetery. John kind of likes her.

But for the next few days, he feels like he's holding his breath. Any second now, his belly will start cramping. The morning sickness will vanish. He'll bleed and hurt and another piece of him will tear apart with another loss. The slightest pangs have him clutching at his middle, and whispering a litany of _please please please_ in the privacy of his brain.

The cramps never start. The nausea remains, a constant, exhausting, oddly welcome presence. He's still pregnant. The fear doesn't go away.

He thinks Harold can probably tell he's terrified, is probably worried himself. Harold keeps watching him, his eyes drawn to John's belly. Several times, Harold opens his mouth to speak, then seems to change his mind. John wonders what he plans to say, if he's going to ask a simple, _"Are you all right, Mr. Reese?"_ —or would he call him John this time?—or if he's going to voice the other thought they're both thinking: that John shouldn't be working the numbers right now.

Turns out, it's the latter. After four incredibly easy, incredibly boring numbers (one of which includes the added bonus of Fusco saying John looks like "microwaved crap—not just regular crap, the kind you find in the back of the freezer and nuke anyway," a mental image that almost makes John puke on Lionel's shoes out of spite), Harold declares, "I don't think this is going to work—you working in the field during your pregnancy," and John, to his own dismay, agrees.

"We need Shaw," John says. "And I think I know where she'll go next."

Harold raises his eyebrows. "And where is that?"

"The same place I would go." To keep an eye on Michael Cole's parents.

* * *

Shaw doesn't shoot him this time. She just calls him an idiot for "getting yourself knocked up" when he explains the situation, which is...probably fair, John admits. "Who did it? Harold?"

"None of your business," John says. "But no. Not Harold."

"Bet you wish it was his, though, don't you?" she says, in a sharp and nasty tone. The idea jolts him. He hadn't considered that. Either he'll look at that peculiar feeling more closely later, or bury it deep inside himself.

Aloud, he doesn't respond. "You'll be well-paid for your work," he tells her, though he suspects she's not motivated by money. "And you'll see plenty of action."

"I don't give a crap about the money," she says, "and I'd see more action rescuing kittens from trees." She narrows her eyes. "You guys really are desperate, aren't you?"

"It's something to do," John says. "Being dead can get kind of boring after a while. And Finch will never order anyone to kill you."

"You sure about that?"

John shrugs. "An inconvenient pregnancy would probably be a good reason for either of our former employers to retire us. Finch hasn't done it yet."

"Or maybe he's waiting until you've recruited me to get rid of you," she says.

"Finch wouldn't do that," he insists. Shaw looks at him like he's monumentally dumb. "He wouldn't."

"That kind of faith in another person is stupid," she says. "Especially in our line of work. It's gonna get you killed someday, Reese. You're compromised. _Badly_ compromised. I won't work with that.

"Tell Harold I'm still not interested." She turns away. "And don't try to contact me again."

* * *

John hates to admit it to himself, but when he gets back to the Library, he spends the first few minutes lurking in the shadows, watching Harold for any signs of impending betrayal. Is scratching Bear's belly and calling the dog a good boy in a silly voice a sign Harold's plotting to get rid of him? Somehow, John doubts it. Even he's not _that_ paranoid.

 _Harold_ might be that paranoid, but John is not.

If Harold is plotting to take him out—which he highly doubts; the man hates guns and violence, for goodness' sake—it won't happen in the next few minutes.

"Hey Finch," he calls out, and Harold jumps, then turns a glare on him. Bear is much happier to see him, leaping up and running to John's side. John gets down on his knees to give Bear some well-earned attention.

"I thought I'd finally taught you how to _knock_ ," Harold grumbles, brushing dog hair off his pants before he sits back up. John shrugs a shoulder, completely unapologetic, and Harold sighs. "How did it go with Ms. Shaw?"

"Struck out. Not interested... _and_ she thinks you're planning to kill me the second she says yes."

"You have nothing to worry about there," Harold says. "If I were going to kill you, I wouldn't have spent the better part of today looking for a doctor for you."

"A doctor?" John raises an eyebrow.

"To handle your pregnancy." While John was gone, Harold spent his time searching for an obstetrician. "I want you to have the best care available," he says, "and my research indicates that Dr. Larsen is the best. She specializes in high-risk male pregnancies, has handled many so-called 'geriatric pregnancies'—"

"Geriatric? I'm not _that_ old."

"Over 35 is considered old in obstetrics, Mr. Reese," Harold says, then goes back to his explanation. "And the vast majority of Dr. Larsen's patients' pregnancies have had a successful outcome—and Ms. Morgan assured me her other specialty is discretion."

John raises his eyebrows. "You talked to Zoe?" he asks, sitting in the chair next to Harold's.

Bear follows him, and settles with his head in John's lap, his face pressed to John's belly. John smiles and scratches him behind the ears, and whispers, "Good boy."

To Harold, he adds, "I figured we weren't telling anyone." At least not yet—or possibly not ever, considering how Joss and, hell, maybe even Lionel, would probably react to him conducting business as usual while pregnant.

"That's up to you," Harold says. "I told her we were dealing with a pregnant client. I don't think she suspected anything. Anyway, I've made arrangements for you to see Dr. Larsen after hours and for her to handle most of your care herself. Your first appointment is tonight.

"There is, however, the matter of your cover story."

John shrugs. "My alias—whatever one we're going with—went into heat, had a one-night-stand, and got pregnant. Happens all the time. Doesn't seem too complicated."

"For the most part. We'll be using John Randall again for this one. I figured you being a bodyguard would be a good explanation for any bruises you may acquire from the numbers. You're concerned that your current employer might fire you due to your pregnancy, so you haven't told him yet, and are—perhaps unwisely—continuing to do your usual work.

"Also, I was thinking that—for the sake of convenience—we might pretend that I am the other father." Harold winces as he speaks, his words coming out faster as he goes along. "You're perfectly welcome to say no, of course. I just thought it might be easier if—"

"Finch." John pats Harold's arm. "I think that's a great idea."

"It would also mean that my name would be on your baby's birth certificate," Harold adds. "Well, one of their birth certificates, anyway."

 _"Bet you wish it was his, though, don't you?"_ echoes in John's head and his heart. He shoves it aside. It's a matter of convenience, nothing more. If John keeps the kid, then it'll be easier on everyone when he finally meets the wrong bullet if Harold is listed as the kid's other father.

"I'm fine with that," he says.

Harold exhales almost inaudibly, the relief on his face probably only obvious to someone who knows him as well as John does.

John changes the subject. "So how did John Randall and Harold—" Crane, probably, or maybe a rare appearance by Partridge, or even Wren...but isn't there a bird they say brings babies to people? "—Stork, I'm guessing?"

Harold gives him an unimpressed look. "Harold _Crane_."

"Right, right," John says, not bothering to hide his smirk. "How did Randall and Stork meet?"

"You work as a bodyguard for an acquaintance of mine," Harold says. "You went into heat unexpectedly while we were at an event, I found you very attractive, you found me...acceptable—"

John resists the impulse to say, _"You're more than 'acceptable,' Harold."_

"—and we spent the night together. It wasn't supposed to go any further, but Harold _Crane_ is an honorable man who takes care of his responsibilities."

"Ah, so I'm Mr. Stork's dirty little secret then," John teases, just to make Harold scowl even more. "The after-hours appointments, the emphasis on discretion..."

"A tawdry one-night-stand does make a good cover in our unique situation," Harold says. "And Mr. Crane also recognizes that this might be his last chance to have an heir."

John's heart spasms at that. Just like it's his own last chance to have a child.

"Now, I don't anticipate us needing to be physically closer to each other than usual," Harold continues, "but I do think that—only if it's acceptable to you, of course—it might strengthen our covers if I touch or rub your abdomen on occasion during the appointments. I hope that won't be a problem."

"Hmm," John says, dragging the syllable out, pretending to consider Harold's idea. "That sounds a lot better than what most people do to my gut. Usually I'm getting punched or stabbed or shot in it."

"Oh dear." Harold blanches, and he gives John a wide-eyed, horrified look. John shrugs a shoulder and quirks his lips. Then, Harold adjusts his glasses and regains his composure, but his voice quavers slightly as he says, "I assure you, I will be quite gentle if I touch you."

"I know you will."

He gets an image in his head then, a fantasy, set sometime months in the future. Harold is lying next to him in bed, running his hand reverently over John's round belly, an unrestrained smile lighting up Harold's odd little face, rendering it beautiful. It's peaceful and sweet, and it makes John's heart ache. Then, his brain shows Harold kissing the swell of his belly, just to twist the knife further.

" _You wish it was his,"_ says Shaw's voice again. And now that the thought's digging into his head, he's not sure he'll be able to dislodge it. Harold would be an amazing father.

No. John can't allow himself to keep thinking about that.

"Also, later this afternoon," Harold says, "you might want to increase your liquid consumption and, er, refrain from using the restroom," with a grimace. "In case Dr. Larsen wishes to perform an ultrasound. A full bladder makes things more visible."

"Does it?" John says, and Harold pushes over a stack of books—pregnancy books. Another is lying next to his mouse, with a bookmark sticking out between pages. It looks more like a textbook than the others. "Huh."

"I've been doing research into your condition," Harold says, as John flips through the book on top of the stack. He comes to the line "one of life’s most magical experiences" and snaps the book shut.

He feels like shit. If magic is what he's supposed to expect when he's expecting, he's been cheated.

"You should probably do some research as well," Harold continues, slowly, eying the closed book with a frown. John doesn't open it again. "A lot happens during a pregnancy—even now, when it's not obvious to anyone else that you're expecting, your baby is growing _rapidly_ , their body's cells multiplying at an exponential rate, and your body is undergoing a great deal of dramatic changes as well. It's quite fascinating."

Harold's expression brightens as he speaks, until he's grinning openly, delighted by his new scientific puzzle. No doubt pregnancy will soon be another subject Harold's an expert in. Harold's so endearing when he's excitedly wrapping his brilliant mind around a complex subject. It makes John smile, too, insides flooding with warm fondness.

And this time, Harold's intense focus is on something happening to John. It's hard not to feel cared for with Harold's attention on something so deeply connected to him.

"Mr. Reese, it's even moving already, right now," Harold says, leaning toward him, gesturing emphatically toward John's belly, "even though you can't even feel it yet. Can you believe that? That tiny little fetus inside _you_ is already waving its arms and legs around in there." He lets out a small laugh. "It really is something, isn't it?"

Oh, that's not just fondness he's feeling, John realizes abruptly. That's...something he'd thought he'd never feel again, something that has his heart skipping beats and longing for more that he can't have. He's not just _fond_ of Harold Finch. He's in deep, deep trouble.

 _"You wish it was his"_ becomes _"you wish **you** were his."_

"Yeah," he manages to say. "It really is something."

* * *

Dr. Alice Larsen is a very short, older beta, with graying black hair, glasses like Harold's, and a formidable suspicious stare. "This isn't the way I usually treat patients," she says, stiffly, turning her obvious mistrust on them both from across her office desk. It's like being in the principal's office, John thinks, or staring down a firing squad.

"You will be well compensated for your time, I assure you," Harold says, which just makes Larsen's expression grow more unimpressed. John likes her.

But perhaps it's time for a new tactic. Giving Larsen a friendly smile, John says, "Harold and I are busy people, too," and he takes Harold's hand and laces their fingers together. Maybe if she thinks they're a couple, not just some rich asshole who knocked up his— _there_. Her expression softens slightly.

"This is the first time we've both had a chance to get away from work in weeks," John continues. "Figured we'd use it to check up on our baby, didn't we, darling? Make sure everything's going okay..."

Picking up on the change in strategy, Harold leans against him, arm to arm. "We're both just concerned," he says.

"Especially you," John says, with a fond look and a teasing tone, before turning back to Larsen. "Harold hasn't stopped fretting since the stick turned blue the other day. I keep telling him I'm being careful, I'm taking good care of myself, I'm healthy—"

"But your job is so dangerous," Harold interrupts, turning to John and putting a hand on John's belly. John tries not to show his shock, and lays his hand on Harold's. "I can't help but worry about you, dear, especially now. I just want you both to be okay."

"—so if you could just maybe tell him what I already know—that I'm fine and the baby's fine—I'd really appreciate it."

"Well, I'll have to examine you and run some tests before I can say that for sure," Larsen says, finally smiling at the two of them. "Would you like to get started?"

She takes them down empty, echoing hallways—where he and Harold walk more closely than ever—to an exam room. Inside, she bombards John with a seemingly endless list of questions. Harold told him before to answer honestly, so he tries. But when Larsen gets to family history, he can't answer. "I don't know my family history," he says, and Harold squeezes his hand. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for, Mr. Randall," Larsen says, kindly. "And you, Mr. Crane?"

"I lost my parents when I was young," Harold replies, easily, and John wonders if it's the truth. "And I lost touch with the rest of my family shortly after. I'm afraid I'm as unfamiliar with my own family history as John."

"In that case, would you like us to do some genetic testing on the baby?" Larsen asks. "I usually encourage my patients to consider checking for problems, especially older patients, and in your case—"

It sounds like a _massive_ security risk. "Can we discuss it first?" John asks, gesturing between him and Harold.

"Of course," Larsen replies. "We'll save talking about it for your next appointment."

She checks his vitals. Draws his blood, John watching the vials fill with dark red, Harold facing the wall with a nauseated expression. Poor Harold. Even after helping patch up John so many times—even after helping a doctor do heart surgery—Harold's still squeamish about blood. It makes John chuckle.

Harold, ever perceptive, gives him an annoyed glare, and John grins shamelessly at him. There's a faint twitch of an exasperated smile at the corners of Harold's lips. John feels victorious.

Then, Larsen says it's time for the ultrasound. As she explains something he should probably listen to, that dizzying drop in his guts comes back, like jumping from a plane without a parachute. His breath gets lodged in his throat. Larsen's going to look at the baby, show them the baby, he's going to actually see _it_. Oh, God, there can't be a baby in there, he can't be having a baby...

"Breathe, John," Harold says, softly, but it's like an order, so he tries, clutching Harold's hand so hard it must hurt as he draws in a shaky breath. "Deep breath in—very good—deep breath out. Excellent. In, slowly. There we go. And out."

Gradually, the frantic pounding of John's heart eases. He can breathe. He can think. His insides still feel hollowed out, like his guts plummeted to the center of the earth, but he can think the word "baby" without as much of an urge to run. He can ease his grip on Harold, can register the brush of Harold's thumb moving over the back of his hand.

"Thank you," he whispers, looking into Harold's wide, concerned eyes, trying to convey how much he means it.

"Anything you need, John," Harold says, easily meeting John's gaze. "Anytime."

"Do you think you're ready now?" Larsen asks.

John nods, and forces himself to smile. "Yeah," he says. "Let's see the baby."

It takes more effort than it should to keep breathing as Larsen sets up the ultrasound machine. Harold doesn't let go of his hand, and doesn't stop stroking it with his thumb. He's not used to this sort of touch from Harold, but he likes it. It's deeply reassuring. He relaxes his grip, but doesn't let go either, until Larsen gets him to bare his belly.

While Larsen squirts gel onto his skin, John's hand finds its way into Harold's again. He's not sure which of them initiated the contact. Neither of them resists it. He wonders if Harold needs it as much as he does. Except Harold has no reason to be terrified. He's not the monster who's about to fuck up a kid's life.

"Okay, here we go," Larsen says, interrupting John's thoughts, and she presses the ultrasound transducer to his abdomen and pushes some buttons. A streaky black and white image fills the screen. To John, it looks like the ultrasound he had years ago when he hadn't been able to get out of a hospital trip after a car crash, full of vague grayscale shapes. Larsen moves the transducer, and the image resolves into something more like the ones Harold showed him that afternoon.

"Is that..." Harold begins, and trails off.

"Yes." Larsen points at the screen, at something tiny and somewhat baby-shaped. "There they are," she says. "There's your baby. And that right there is the heartbeat."

"Oh my," Harold whispers, and John turns to him. He's staring in awe, eyes huge, mouth hanging slightly open. And then he smiles. He's never seen Harold smile so honestly before. It's the smile from John's fantasies, only better, pure and unrestrained, transforming Harold's face into something beautiful and painful to look at.

John turns away, the screen catching his eyes again. On either side of him, Harold and the doctor speak, but he doesn't hear them, unable to focus on anything but the tiny being on the screen. That being—his _baby_ —moves, and the strongest urge he's ever felt to _protect_ surges through him. In an instant, he knows he'd tear apart the world for them, would maim and destroy and kill. He'd kill himself for them. He'd kill Harold.

 _And there's the problem_ , he thinks. His first thoughts aren't about giving his kid the world—they're about destroying it for them. They're about killing for them. He wants to be smiling too. He's pregnant. He's carrying a kid. It's real, and it's wonderful, and he thinks his heart might explode from love and longing, and oh God. Why isn't he thinking of good things? Why is he thinking about death?

He doesn't deserve this. He can't do this. He can't, he can't, he _can't_...

"I need...air," John says, already hopping off the table, not caring that Larsen isn't finished or his clothes are gaping open. "Space. I need to think."

"John?" Harold calls out. John ignores him, too, and heads out the door.

Pausing only to use the restroom, John flees. He leaves the office, going nowhere in particular. He needs to think, or, better yet, to not think. So he walks.

* * *

He's not at all surprised when a black Town Car pulls up alongside him, nor when the passenger side window rolls down, revealing Harold in the driver's seat. Only by the fact that Harold waited over half an hour to show up.

"I tracked your phone," Harold says apologetically, holding up his own, then tucking it into his jacket. The driver behind him honks his horn, and Harold jumps. John tamps down on the urge to flip the guy off, turning his most murderous assassin's glare on him instead. The driver swallows visibly and sinks back in his seat, looking horrified. It's deeply satisfying.

Harold watches the exchange and sighs heavily. "Would you please get in the car, John? Before you cause a traffic accident with your death glare."

He gets in the car.

They ride in silence for a long time. He can't tell where Harold's going. It's not toward the Library, or John's loft, or any of their usual haunts. Perhaps, like John's walk, Harold doesn't know where he's headed, as long as he keeps going somewhere, anywhere.

John tries not to think. Every time he does, that gut-drop feeling returns, that urge to run. Fling the car door open, destroy his phone, run and disappear. But the source of his terror is inside him, an innocent little baby not realizing it's growing inside a monster. An innocent little baby that he _wants_ , wants so much that it scares the hell out of him, that it makes him feel even more monstrous. His kid deserves better.

 _I'm sorry_ , he tries to tell it with his mind, a hand going to his belly. _I'm sorry you're probably stuck with me. I'm so sorry._

Maybe he could give the kid to the other father? It wouldn't take much effort to hunt him down. He's found anonymous people with less information than the smell of their skin, the taste of their tongue, the date they'd fucked him in a heat club. But people went to Firetime for the anonymity—he certainly did. And the alpha was young. Much younger than a man John's age had any business being with.

No, the other father wasn't a good option, either.

Adoption, then. Maybe he could give the baby up for adoption. His stomach squirms unpleasantly at the idea—but no, it's a great idea, he tells himself. He was adopted himself. He could find someone who was good enough for his baby, peek in every now and then (all the time) to make sure they were still okay, take action if they weren't. The kid would never have to know they had a father like him, and would be safe from the bullet that would inevitably come his way one day. It would be the best option. Wouldn't it?

God, this would be so much easier if he didn't _want_.

They get caught up in a traffic jam, and Harold finally speaks. "I'm not going to make you talk."

John lets out a ragged laugh. "You couldn't if you tried." If anyone could, it was Harold.

"No, I don't suppose I could, could I?" Harold says. "So I'm just going to say that I have a fairly good idea of why you took off, of why you panicked."

John stays silent.

"You're still laboring under the mistaken assumption that you don't deserve this," Harold says. "That you're not good enough for this."

 _"You trust him with a baby?"_ Joss's voice says. _"You trust him with a baby, you trust him with a **baby** , you trust **him** with a baby?"_

"And I wish I knew what to say or do that would convince you otherwise." Harold sounds...heartbroken. John's struck with the urge to apologize. Instead, he looks away, stares out the window through burning, blurring eyes, not seeing anything.

"I fully believe you'd be an exceptional father," Harold continues. "You're so caring, so kind. You have so much love to give. I know your baby will never be lacking in love. Or anything else, for that matter. You'd do anything for your child. You'd give them the world."

He would destroy it.

"And, for what you can't give them, you have a reclusive billionaire at your disposal," Harold adds. "I mean it when I say that I will do anything to help you through this, and after. Anything you need—anything at all. I am here. You're my friend, John. I want to help you."

"Then tell me I shouldn't do this," John chokes out, and whirls around to face him. "Tell me to stop being selfish and give the baby to someone else when it's born. Someone better."

Someone better. Someone like...

"You," John says. "You could—"

"No," Harold says, firmly.

"—take the baby. Raise them as your own."

"John, _no._ "

"You'd be an amazing dad, Finch. You could do this so much better than I could. It'd be great. You—"

"John, stop!" Harold snaps, and John's mouth slams shut. Harold heaves a sigh, and, in a more even tone, says, "I've considered this option already, and I'm afraid I can't agree to it. I am almost ten years older than you. When that child is 18, I will be in my seventies. I'm old enough to be their grandfather now— _and_ I'm disabled. I'm..."

Harold takes a deep breath, and, sounding like it takes great effort to admit it, he very quietly says, "I am in pain constantly. There are days when my body just...malfunctions, days when I'm simply not capable of doing something like handling a child on my own."

"I'd help," John says automatically.

"Yes, and then what would be the point in giving the child to me?" Harold asks. "If you're worried about the effects your influence might have on the child, why would you babysit? Why would you be involved? Why would I let you be involved, if we both thought you were a threat?

"If something were to happen to you," Harold continues, "I would take the child, without question, if those were your wishes—of course I would. But as things are now? I won't do it. I _can't_ do it. I can help you, but I can't be their only parent by choice. I'm sorry.

"If I believed you giving up your child was the best course of action, I would strongly encourage it. But as things are, I will only encourage it if you truly do not want to keep the child.

"What do you _want_ , John? What does your heart want?" Harold glances toward the hand John still has on his belly. "You want the baby, don't you?"

John only has one answer to that, much as he hates himself for it. "Yes."

"Then that's all there is to it," Harold says. "Countless terrible people have and raise unwanted babies every year. I suspect they will do far more damage to those poor children than a good man who truly wants his child ever will.

"Keep your baby. Do something that will make you happy."

There's an odd note in Harold's voice, and it takes a moment for John to recognize it: pleading. Like Harold desperately wants him to keep the baby, even though he said he wouldn't adopt it. _Mr. Crane's last chance to have an heir_ , John thinks. The nervousness when Harold suggested pretending he was the other father, the fact that he suggested it at all—who suggests something like that? That smile as he watched the ultrasound.

John cuts off that train of thought without mercy. He knows where it's going. _"You wish it was his."_ Wishful thinking. Harold's just excited for a pregnant friend, and trying to be supportive in the face of John's ambivalence.

Except nothing's ever that simple with Harold Finch. John studies Harold's face, looking for tells, but he's back to being inscrutable again, attention seemingly on the slowly moving traffic.

It lets John's thoughts jump back to where they were going. The baby. The baby needs someone better. And if the best person he knows won't take them...

He'll look into adoption later. Then maybe he'll be able to make himself do the responsible thing. The selfless thing.

After a while, Harold speaks again. "I do hope you don't feel as though I'm trying to push you into keeping the baby despite your wishes," he says, with obvious distress. "That isn't my intention. I just...you've mentioned wanting children before, and—"

"Harold," John says, cutting him off, "I know you're not. And even if you were, do you really think you could force me into doing something I don't want to do?"

Never mind that Harold very easily could.

Harold gives him a tight smile that doesn't meet his eyes, then looks back to the unmoving cars ahead. "I've been looking into adoption agencies myself, actually, just in case you decided that was the route you'd like to take." John's insides do something complicated that he can't describe. His heart starts hammering in his chest again. "You would make the final call, of course. I don't want to pressure you into anything..."

"Have you found anyone?" His voice sounds rougher than he likes. He clears his throat.

"I've pulled together some files on a few families," Harold replies. "I haven't done a thorough investigation into any of them yet, but on the surface, they all seem like fine people."

"Give me the files." It comes out as a growl. He sighs. "Sorry. I'll look into them."

A pained look flits across Harold's face, then he nods. "Very well. When we get back to the Library, I'll give them to you. But John? Please consider what I said."

John resists the urge to say, _I can't._ Instead, he says, "Thank you for coming. To the appointment."

"You're welcome," Harold says. "I'll accompany you to all of the appointments, if you'd like."

He could handle them on his own, he thinks. He's been going to the damn doctor on his own for decades. Granted, most times he went he was unconscious or out of options, but it's something he can handle. He doesn't need Harold there holding his hand.

"Yeah," he says, "I would. Thanks."

* * *

Six potential families, all wildly different on the surface, except for one common thread: Harold thinks they might be good people. John takes The Files home, and they wind up on a rarely-used table, in a precisely-aligned stack. 

He thinks of The Files in capital letters, like The Machine. Every time he tries to look at them, he feels ill.

He's never been a procrastinator. But The Files gather dust—the only thing he lets collect it. He's somehow always too sick to his stomach to read them, or he's too tired or bloated, or he has a small headache. Such pathetic excuses, he thinks, and yet...

And yet, dust gathers.

* * *

He's so distracted by his pregnancy dilemma that, at first, he doesn't notice the widening gap between numbers. It's not the first time they've gone a day or two without work, and there _is_ a massive storm slated to move in soon. Maybe people have decided to rein in their urge to plot to kill each other?

John doesn't have nearly enough faith in humanity left to believe that.

Three days, no numbers. Not even something he could handle in his sleep like the last few.

He spends the break like he does most—in Harold's company. Mostly at the Library, avoiding the stack of pregnancy books and his plans for other research. Instead, he grabs a Crichton novel about nanotech that makes Harold cringe and go, " _Really_ , Mr. Reese?" as soon as John brings it in.

"Baby brain, Finch," he jokes. It's not far off from the truth. He's so tired. "Wanted an easy read." He opens the cover and skims the list of the author's other books. _Jurassic Park_. Huh. "Hey, Finch? What's your favorite dinosaur?"

Harold doesn't answer immediately, and John wonders if, somehow, dinosaurs are too personal. It wouldn't be the first time an innocent question went unanswered.

"I always thought _T. rex_ was pretty cool when I was a kid," John offers.

"I think every child thinks _T. rex_ is cool, at some point or another," Harold says. "Even I wasn't immune. But I was always partial to pterosaurs, though they weren't actually dinosaurs."

"Pterosaurs—pterodactyls?" John chuckles. Trust Harold to pick something that flew.

"Did you know that scientists believe that birds are actually the dinosaurs' closest living relatives, not reptiles?" Harold adds. "And that some species of dinosaurs had feathers, or at least a precursor to them?"

Harold launches into a lecture about dinosaurs, tossing out facts as easily as breathing, and John sits back and listens, biting back a grin. It would be one of the stupid kinds of grins if he let it loose, he knows, all soppy and huge and impossible to hide. Something about Harold showing off his brilliance always does crazy things to John's heart.

And it's a welcome distraction. For a little while, John can forget that his body is tired, his stomach is sick, his mind is in Hell. No tough questions or decisions. No fear. No Files. Just Harold, talking about dinosaurs for a while, leaving John at peace enough to actually try to read when Harold gets back to work.

In truth, the days off are much-needed. He's exhausted, every waking moment a struggle not to doze. If he had something to do, he might not notice so easily, he thinks, but without a number, it's overwhelming.

He's just so tired. He feels like hell, and he's tired.

After John falls asleep and drops his book for the third time, Harold says, "Why don't you go to the crash space and take a nap?" 

God, the idea is tempting. But Harold mentioned going to the movies earlier. John doesn't want to miss out on that, and, more irrationally, he's been feeling a little lonely. He doesn't want to wake up alone. "Because I'll probably sleep 'til morning if I do," he replies.

"Would that be such a bad thing? You need your sleep right now."

John shrugs. "Thought you wanted to go see a movie later."

"Only if you're able to stay awake during it," Harold says. "You could set yourself an alarm, if you still wish to join me despite your fatigue."

John sets an alarm on his phone, and heads off for a proper nap.

* * *

They go to see a double feature, Bear in tow. John tries his best to stay awake. They're good movies, even with the subtitles on one. But his eyelids are so heavy...

He drifts off, and wakes up to Harold calling his name as the credits of the second movie roll. It takes him longer than usual to drag himself to full consciousness. _"One of life's most magical experiences."_ What a damn lie. Pregnancy is a shitshow.

"Sorry," he says, wiping his bleary eyes. "Turns out growing a kid's a little tough."

"Oh really?" Harold says, dryly. "I always thought growing a separate human being in one's abdomen would be _easy_." Then, in a reassuring tone, he adds, "You'll be out of the first trimester in a few weeks. Supposedly you'll feel better then. Are you up for joining me for dinner, or is your stomach giving you trouble?"

"I should probably eat something." John grimaces. His stomach hates the idea of food. He rubs at it, trying to relieve the discomfort. It doesn't help. "But I'm feeling a little...pregnant right now."

"Something light, then," Harold says. "Perhaps that place with the wraps you like?"

Nothing sounds appealing, so it's as good a suggestion as any. John says so as they head for the door. Once outside, they chat about Bear's new service vest—"a little unethical," he says, though it's hardly the most unethical thing either of them has played a part in, and Harold _is_ , in his own words, "handi-capable." Then conversation turns to The Machine. Three days, no numbers. Harold is worried, and suspects the silence is related to Kara's virus. John doesn't disagree.

Especially when The Machine gives them six numbers at once, spread out across the country. They've had number clusters before, but not one made up of so many seemingly-unrelated people from out of state. Five mafia dons, four people who stole drug money from a car crash—those make sense. But these? Three are in the missing persons database, two are off the grid. That's all that seems to connect them—the fact that they're all missing.

John looks at the map, and feels the familiar crushing exhaustion return, joined by the beginnings of a headache. If Harold asked, he'd go all over the world to investigate all of them. God, he really hopes Harold doesn't ask.

Luckily, one of the numbers is in Brooklyn. He'll go deal with that one first.

* * *

Jack Rollins leads to FBI agent Alan Fahey, who is both and neither at once. He's Alex Declan, who almost kills Harold—thank God for Joss Carter and Cal Beecher; otherwise, John would be tearing a serial killer to shreds right now, piece by painful piece. Once he escaped getting shot at with a spear gun, knocked unconscious, and nearly dragged into the ocean by a drug dealing fisherman, that is.

It's not their finest hour, though finding out Harold can fly a plane almost makes it worth it.

"You're gonna have to take me flying sometime when we're not running away after a case, Finch," John says, not bothering to hide his grin. The bird found a way to fly. "When did Gull get his pilot's license?" he asks, not expecting an honest answer.

"Several years ago," Harold replies. It's the sort of vague and disappointing non-answer John's used to, so he can't help but be pleased when Harold adds, "But I've been flying for much longer than he has—since the mid-90's."

And it's obvious. Harold flew the plane through a nasty storm without crashing, and now he seems as at ease behind the controls as he is at his computers. It looks like muscle memory, automatic, and John wonders how many of Harold's rare moments of spare time are spent flying an airplane. And if he can fly anything else.

"Ever fly a helicopter?"

"Regrettably, no," Harold replies. "But I'd like to, someday."

"Guess I'll have to steal one for you someday, then." John grins. "Teach you how to fly it."

To his surprise, Harold says, "I'd like that." Then, sternly, he adds, "Except for the part where you _steal it_."

"So buy me one, then." John relaxes in his seat, feeling good despite his throbbing head and queasy gut. "My birthday's in a few months. Or it could be a fun baby shower gift."

Harold hums thoughtfully, but doesn't comment at first. Then, just when John's starting to think the subject is closed, Harold asks, "Do you actually _want_ a baby shower?"

John thinks about that for a moment. As an omega, he got dragged to several growing up, and he hated every second of them. Stupid games, gifts he can buy for his own damn kid if he keeps it... "No, not really."

Harold exhales audibly. "Oh, thank God."

After they get back from Owen Island, Harold goes to talk to Shaw. He returns obviously rattled, wearing the look he gets when he's been held at gunpoint for too long.

"I take it it didn't go well?" John says.

Harold lets out an unamused chuckle. "That's an understatement. I keep trying to think of a way to convince her to join our operation, but she's completely uninterested."

"And you don't have any other candidates at all?"

"No," Harold says. "Once I hired you and you demonstrated your capabilities, I stopped looking. Everyone else I considered at the time appears to be unavailable. I thought about hiring another former number, perhaps, but the most suitable ones are Joey Durban and Shayn Coleman, who are both far out of state. At the moment, the only other option I can think of is to hire a mercenary who's just in it for the money, which—"

"No."

"—is not an avenue I'm particularly interested in pursuing," Harold finishes. It's a huge relief. He doesn't want to have to protect Harold from a random merc. "I've been down that road before, and each time, it ended poorly."

"You mean I'm not your first, Finch?" It's not surprising, really. Between Harold's tech setup and his skills as a handler, it was obvious that Harold had had some experience working the numbers when he'd hired John. Not much—otherwise Harold never would've been dosed with E—but some.

"No," Harold admits, "but you are the best. Turns out what I needed for this venture was someone who was motivated by more than money. The people we help deserve better than an opportunist. Which is why I think Ms. Shaw would make a decent substitute for you."

"Agreed," John says. "She's got the right skills, she's got an idea of what we do, and she doesn't care about the money. And we could probably even get away with telling her about The Machine." At Harold's startled look, he adds, "She _has_ been working for it for the past few years."

"True," Harold says, though he sounds reluctant about it. "But I'd rather not tell her unless it's absolutely necessary. Of course, we may never be able to convince her to work with us, so all of this speculation may be pointless. Nevertheless..."

"It's not a bad idea to come up with a game plan," John says. "Unless you find someone else, I'm planning to keep working the numbers as long as I'm able."

"I just wish you didn't need to," Harold says. "Putting you in peril right now is making me deeply uncomfortable."

"I know what I'm doing," John insists.

"I know you do. You do your job very well."

There's something else Harold wants to say—John can tell. "But?"

"But sometimes you being exceptionally good at your job simply isn't enough," Harold says. "We were both nearly killed the other day. We need to find a way to get you out of the field until you've given birth. If something were to happen to you..."

Harold doesn't finish that thought; he doesn't need to. John knows that the guilt would destroy Harold. It would probably destroy John, too, if he lived to see the aftermath.

"Our options at the moment seem to be sending me out into the field more—which I know you dislike—and seeking more help from the detectives, temporarily hiring someone who might turn out to be a threat to our operation, or—worst case scenario—discontinuing our work until after you've recovered from the birth."

"A rock and a hard place," John says.

"More like a whole quarry full of rocks." Harold sighs. "Are you ready to tell the detectives about your pregnancy?"

"Not yet," John admits. The fewer people who know, the fewer questions he'll have to dodge in the increasingly unlikely event that he decides not to keep the kid, or if...something he doesn't want to think about happens. "If we can get them on board without telling them...maybe act like we're getting slammed all of a sudden?" Even though they have the opposite problem.

"They won't be pleased when they find out the truth."

"Yeah, but they won't be pleased no matter when we tell them," John says. "I could tell them right now, and they'd both be just as pissed that I didn't stop doing this the second I found out I was pregnant as they will be later. And Carter's probably gonna yell at you for letting me do it."

"Detective Carter is absolutely going to yell at me for allowing you to continue working," Harold says. "She's already spoken with me about how pale you've looked recently. I told her you were recovering from the flu, but I don't think she believed me."

Huh. "She hasn't said anything to me."

"Be that as it may, I have a very uncomfortable, very _loud_ conversation with Detective Carter in my future," Harold says. "Quite frankly, I deserve to be yelled at. I've been tempted to yell at myself for allowing this to continue, to be perfectly honest."

"Hey." He claps Harold lightly on the shoulder. "You've been doing what you can with what you have. You really think I'm the first pregnant omega who's kept doing a dangerous job?"

Harold huffs. "Of course not. But that doesn't mean I have to _approve_ , does it? Or that it's _safe_."

"I'm still useful, Finch."

"Yes, but at some point in the next few months, you're going to _have_ to quit field work. Your body will force you to. The further along you get, the more your body will change. Your joints will be loose. Your balance will be off. You will probably be in pain, or, at the very least, incredibly uncomfortable. And your enlarged abdomen will be a massive target."

But no more numbers. No more helping people. No more _purpose_. The thought makes him feel sick. Lost. The numbers give him a reason to get up in the morning, to keep going every day. And now he'll have to give that up?

 _For the baby._ Guilt twists the queasy knot in his gut. How can he put the numbers above his child, even for a second? He's going to be a terrible father, whether he keeps the kid or not, isn't he?

"If certain people figure out that the Man in the Suit is pregnant?" Harold continues. "The consequences could be... _beyond_ devastating, John."

Harold's expression turns haunted. John wonders if he's thinking of the three numbers on his list of lost chances who were pregnant when they were killed. His own thoughts drift to Kara, who'd told him once about a retired partner who often bragged about what he'd done to a pregnant target. Inside, he shudders.

"I know," he says. "And you're right. I'll step back when I can or when I have to, and if you want to take steps to get me less involved, I'll accept that."

Harold relaxes minutely. "I know how important this work is to you, and I'm not firing you. You're very good at it, and I greatly enjoy working with you. But..."

"You're trying to look after us," John says. "Thank you."

People don't look after him. Snow would've either used the pregnancy to his advantage or as a different excuse to retire him. Kara would've been disgusted with him for continuing it, though she did always seem to draw the line at harming pregnant people or kids. There was still a huge stigma against omegas in the military, especially pregnant male ones, and he would've been pressured heavily to abort and treated badly when he didn't, unless he gave in and left.

Harold? Harold brings him snacks and meals. Harold rubbed his back and made peppermint tea for him when he was throwing up. Harold took charge of getting him a doctor, and smiled like it was his own baby during that ultrasound. Harold urges him to take care of himself, even if it means compromising their whole operation. Harold _worries_ about him.

"You're a good man, Harold."

Harold averts his eyes, and presses his lips together. He's about as bad at believing it as John, John suspects. Smiling sadly, John reaches over and pats Harold's arm. Maybe someday, John can convince him—though he's probably the worst person in the world for that job.

"I'll talk to the detectives later," Harold quietly says. "See what we can work out."


	2. Chapter 2

Another number comes in, but Fusco and Carter are tied up with a homicide case. Mary Wallace—61, beta, soon-to-be-retired middle school English teacher with a love for clashing floral prints—is John's responsibility, then. The threat to her isn't immediately obvious, either, which means recon.

And his stomach woke up on the wrong side of the bed again.

It's damn hard to focus on a boring case with his internal organs determined to escape through his throat. He can do it—and he does. But he spends a whole day sucking on ginger candy, wanting to strangle the idiot that named the mess in his gut "morning sickness" as he listens to Mrs. Wallace teach the same lesson about verbs over and over again in a dull and passionless tone.

Shortly after he cuts the connection to Harold to take care of the nausea more directly a third time, Harold shows up in person, carrying a travel mug full of ginger tea and a packet of graham crackers.

"You didn't eat again this morning, did you?" he asks, carefully avoiding looking over the edge of the rooftop. Not fond of heights, John remembers—and yet he keeps popping up on rooftops to help John.

John shrugs a shoulder, and takes a drink from the mug, not looking away from Wallace. "Didn't feel like it." He'd had another nightmare last night. Feeding himself in the aftermath had seemed like too much effort.

"Not eating can exacerbate morning sickness, I've read." Harold tears open the packet of crackers and offers one to John. He takes it. "I know you may not always feel like it right now, but you should try to keep something on your stomach, and—oh, it's no wonder children these days hate school so much."

"You gonna homeschool this kid, Finch?" John munches on the sweet cracker, ignoring the threats from his belly.

"I'm tempted to, to be honest," Harold says, taking half a graham cracker for himself.

"Teach them how to hack the Pentagon before they can even talk?" He can picture it: Harold at his computers in the Library, explaining the concept of firewalls or the way a particular program works to a tiny, dark-haired kid sitting on his lap. The kid stares at the screen, chewing on a stuffed toy, their big blue eyes following Harold's finger as Harold gleefully points to strings of code.

John's heart clenches, and tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He blinks them away. Dammit. He wants it to be real so badly.

"Mm, maybe I'll start with the NYPD first," Harold says. "Save the Pentagon for when they have the language and hacking skills to frame another branch of the government. But learning should be fascinating and fun, not... _this_. How on earth is she making the English language so boring?"

Harold sounds so affronted that John can't help chuckling. It's too bad he was in prison when Harold played a teacher. He would've enjoyed watching Harold teach a subject he loves as much as math.

His stomach lurches again—laughter was a mistake, apparently. Shit. Clenching his eyes shut, he leans back against the wall that's held him upright all day and tries to breathe through the latest wave of misery. "Hold this," he tells Harold, thrusting the mug his way, then the cracker. When Harold takes them, John slips his hand inside his coat.

He rubs his stomach, and wishes someone would do it for him. Or just hold it gently, place their hand against the incessant roiling and make his belly go still. It's a childish want. He's handled worse than this, and...people don't do that. But, God, he wishes they did. His muscles are sore, and his heart is aching. He's tired. He's frustrated. He _wants._

 _Anything you need_ , Harold had said. What if John said he needed this, if he said his stomach's so sick he wants to rip it out and hurl it at the obnoxious Mary Wallace, and asked Harold to please put his hand _right there_ instead? Would Harold do it? Would it feel as good as John thinks it would?

What's gotten into him?

 _A baby_ , his mind sarcastically supplies. _That's what got into you._

"Is there anything I can do?"

 _Touch me_ , John wants to say. _Put your hand on my stomach. Please._ John shakes his head. "Just give me a minute," he grits out, pulling his monocular from his pocket and holding it out. "Watch Wallace for me."

"Actually," Harold says, "I was wondering if you might let me try something?"

He hears Harold set something down—the cup, he guesses—and then he moves closer, against John's side. "I thought I might try, well..." Harold's fingers tap against John's hand. "If this is too odd, I sincerely apologize, but I'd like to try to help. May I?"

John's eyes snap open. For a second, he wonders if he's dreaming, because Harold couldn't have guessed...that. Harold isn't a tactile man. But Harold is looking at him with wary, earnest eyes, truly offering the kind of comfort he doesn't usually give.

"Yes," John says, and lets his hand fall. Harold replaces it with his own, splaying his palm over John's stomach. Comfort radiates from its weight, spreading through John's agitated insides like soothing warmth. John sighs with pleasure, and lets himself lean the tiniest bit against Harold, careful not to burden Harold's body with his need for more contact.

Harold's hand begins to move, mimicking the side-to-side rubbing and the light hint of pressure John favors. Trust Harold to know exactly how he tries to calm his angry stomach; Harold is nothing if not observant. But it's so much better than his own hand, somehow. It soothes the part of him that's deeply lonely all the time, and the part that wants to whine shamelessly about feeling awful and have somebody care. He's not alone, and somebody cares.

"I know people don't usually do this sort of thing," Harold frets, "but I'm not very good at...all this personal stuff, and being comforting and everything, and I just...I wanted to help you."

"People don't usually team up to be vigilantes based on output from a secret government spy computer, either, Finch," John says, earning a small huff of a laugh. "It feels good, though." He pats Harold's hand. "Thank you."

"For which one?" Harold asks. "For the vigilante career or for rubbing your stomach?"

"Both." With Harold tending to his stomach, John feels capable of watching Wallace again. There's not much to watch. A new class has moved in to replace the last one, and she's back to droning on about the same things as before. "I think she might be our perp, Finch."

"Oh?"

"Yes. She's going to kill all of her students with boredom."

"She's certainly killing any literary aspirations any of them might've had," Harold says, with a shudder. "Good grief."

"Maybe you should arrange an all-expenses-paid vacation for her and take over for a week or two, for her students' sake."

"If she turns out to be the victim, I just might."

Another wave of nausea crests, and John can't hold back a grunt—no, it's more embarrassing than a grunt. It's a tiny whimper. He punches weakly at the wall behind him in frustration.

"I know you must be miserable," Harold says, switching the attention of his hand exclusively to John's stomach, instead of his entire upper abdomen, "but some believe that morning sickness may actually be of evolutionary benefit. The theory is that it's one of the body's ways of protecting the unborn child, by keeping the parent from ingesting toxins during this particularly vulnerable stage of pregnancy."

"Toxins?" John chuckles. "You mean like oxygen? Water? Nutrients?"

"Nobody ever said our bodies were smart, Mr. Reese."

In the end, Wallace turns out to be the perpetrator after all. Her retirement wasn't by choice, and her marriage was in shambles. She blamed both on a fellow teacher, Shelby Monahan (omega, not currently a threat to anyone—automatic assessments), the younger seventh grade English teacher, after finding strands of long red hair in her bed. After school, she confronts Monahan outside with a badly-aimed handgun, and John jumps into action.

Action that consists only of him saying, "Give me the gun, Mrs. Wallace," in a menacing tone, and her dropping the gun to the ground.

"But I'm _gay_ ," Monahan insists, torn between terror and confusion while Harold tries to console her. Wallace is screaming that Monahan's a liar when Monahan's girlfriend (very short, black, 30s, wearing scrubs, also not currently a threat) shows up, and calling her much worse when Carter arrives.

Carter does a double-take when she sees him. "Whoa, you look like _crap_ , John."

"Thank you," he says, handing over Wallace's gun. "Still getting over the flu." She didn't even have the safety off—didn't even know she needed it off. _What idiot gave you a gun, Mary?_ Wallace freaks out at his mention of the flu. He's tempted to puke on her, until she's cuffed and tucked away in the back of Carter's car.

And, okay, even after, if he's honest with himself. Too bad he didn't think of that before—he could've weaponized his morning sickness. Maybe next time.

"Must've been some flu," Joss says, narrowing her eyes.

"He forgot his flu shot," Harold says.

"Of course he did." She shakes her head. "You two better not be covering up some nasty supervirus or anything. Taylor might be excited about the zombie apocalypse, but I am not."

"Aw," John says, "but I was looking forward to eating Harold's brain."

"Mr. Reese!"

Carter laughs. "Oh, come on, Finch—you know he's not gonna let any zombies anywhere near that big brain of yours, even him."

She and the victims leave, and John sidles up to Harold, in a good mood now, even though he's still queasy as hell. "You'd have zombies lining up around the block for you, you know."

Harold harrumphs, and leads John to his car. Along the way, he says, "Well, that was strange, even for us, wasn't it?" looking uncharacteristically nervous. John doesn't think he's talking about the zombie jokes. "How are you feeling now?"

"Better," John assures him. "Still feeling pretty...pregnant—" He grimaces and puts his hand to his stomach, and leaves it there, while his other hand gravitates to Harold's back. "—but things are a little better, thanks to you."

Harold exhales. "I'm glad to hear it," he says. "I was concerned that...anyway, if you need that sort of comfort from me again, please don't hesitate to ask. I hate that you're feeling so terrible."

 _What are we doing, Harold?_ John almost wants to ask. But the boundaries between them have always been a little...different from the norm, haven't they? Harold spies on him almost constantly. He's hidden a tracking device on Harold's glasses. They've been leaving their comm line open overnight lately, even when they're not working a number. They spend almost all of their free time together. They save strangers' lives together. They have a _dog_ together. And they're both so lonely...or maybe not so much anymore.

He really hopes Harold isn't lonely with him around.

They're two dead men without anyone else who knows them. Unconventional is their conventional.

"I'll ask," he says, and it makes Harold smile again. His heart turns a flip.

He is so screwed, and he doesn't even mind, because it's Harold.

* * *

The next appointment with Larsen rolls around, and John's still undecided about everything. He and Harold never got around to discussing the risks of someone getting their hands on the baby's DNA, and John still hasn't looked through The Files or done any research on his own. He doesn't mention adoption—it wouldn't fit the cover. But he does say that he has reservations about checking for abnormalities, without letting on as to why.

It's not paranoia if they really _are_ trying to kill you, after all.

Larsen insists on another ultrasound, with a sonography technician doing it this time. He's a handsome, blond alpha named Mitch, and he sniffs the air discreetly and looks skeptical when John says Harold is the baby's father. Mitch opens his mouth to speak, looking ready to dispute the claim, and John glares, daring him to comment.

But it's Harold who makes Mitch's eyes go wide and terrified. John glances to Harold, who's looking every inch the dangerous alpha billionaire he pretends he isn't, giving Mitch a stare even darker than John's own. It's protective and possessive and defiant, and promises deeply unpleasant consequences if Mitch doesn't keep his mouth shut.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Crawford?" Harold asks, quiet and cold.

Mitch is much taller than Harold, younger and built of muscle. He still swallows visibly and steps back, holding up his hands like he's trying to placate. Harold's expression doesn't waver.

It's the hottest thing John's ever seen. If circumstances were different...

But as they are, he can't get away with dropping to his knees and blowing Harold right there, or doing more instinctual, animal things like rolling over and baring his belly and throat. So John hopes no one notices his cock's gone hard, or that they'll buy it if he plays the pregnancy card if they do.

"No problem," Mitch says, his deep voice shaky. "Uh, I think maybe we should look at this baby now."

"Perhaps that would be wise," Harold says. The icy tone of his voice goes straight to the lust coiling in John's gut, and _twists._ Jesus. If he hadn't had a thing for Harold before, he would have after this.

Then, while Mitch readies the ultrasound machine, Harold turns to John and smiles kindly. "Do you think you'll be all right this time?"

John stares at him, stunned. It's like someone flipped a switch. Somehow, Harold's transformed from someone who could and would destroy everything impetuous Mitch Crawford holds dear into someone sweet and gentle in the blink of an eye.

The CIA would've _killed_ to have Harold Finch as an agent.

It's a good thing he's done ops while painfully aroused before. John manages to smile back, finally, just as Harold's starting to look worried. "I'll be fine," he says, shifting to get comfortable with his rock-hard cock, then flexing his thighs until they hurt to redirect blood flow. Thinking about why he's in the office also helps. He's there to check on his kid. The doctor wants this second ultrasound because he bolted last time.

At Harold's skeptical look, he repeats, "I'll be fine," but when Harold offers his hand, John takes it.

His nerves aren't as on edge now as they were then—he's mostly accepted that, yes, he's definitely pregnant. How to handle the end result, on the other hand, is still in question. Will seeing the baby again settle the matter? So many of the parents he's known have said that they _knew_ they'd keep the baby the second the stick changed color, or the second they saw the ultrasound or heard the heartbeat. He's done two out of three, and he's still on the fence.

Should he ask Joss how she knew she was going to keep Taylor? Ask Lionel how he and his ex decided to keep Lee? How the hell do normal people do this?

"Hey," he says, "any chance we can hear the heartbeat with that thing?"

"Should be able to, yeah," Mitch says.

Oh, there's that plummeting guts feeling again. John had been wondering when that would come back. Will they even be able to hear anything from the kid over the thunderous pounding of his own heart?

Not meeting John's or Harold's eyes, Mitch gets him to bare his abdomen, and, with a perfunctory, "This'll be cold," squirts the ultrasound gel on him. John feels his muscles twitch, but otherwise, he doesn't react. Then, Mitch turns on the machine, and puts the transducer on John's belly.

"Gimme a sec," Mitch says, and soon the whooshing sounds of the ultrasound are joined by something different, a rapid, rhythmic sound that matches the flickering in the tiny baby's chest on the screen.

"Oh my goodness," Harold says, and John glances to him. Harold's staring at the screen, rapt, his eyes shining. "That is...beyond words."

He's right. But even if John knew what to say, he couldn't speak. All the air in the room seems to be trapped in John's throat, in a tight and painful lump. That's his kid's heartbeat, that fast-paced little sound amid the other ultrasound noises. His eyes burn, and, after a moment, he realizes his cheeks are wet.

His hand is drawn to the screen, and he reaches out and traces the shape of the baby with a finger. No, he knows what he wants to say now: _I'm so sorry._ He wants to cradle that tiny being in his arms and apologize. He never wants to break that precious heart, and it's inevitable that he will. One day, he'll shatter it into a billion pieces.

He can't hold back a sob. As soon as it slips out, Harold is pressed tight to his side, wrapping an arm around him. Reflexively, John slumps over against him, letting his head fall on Harold's shoulder and fisting his hand tight around the lapel of Harold's jacket.

"You can do this," Harold whispers, curling a hand around John's fist. "John, you _can_ , I promise. You will be such a good father." John shakes his head. "No, John, you _will_ be. Any child would be incredibly lucky to have you as a father, and this one could. Please, let yourself have this. Please."

Can he do this? Can he possibly be a good father? Is there any chance Harold is right in this, too?

 _Please,_ he begs, though he doesn't know who he's asking. _Please, I need Harold to be right again. I need to be able to keep this baby. I need to be able to be a good father. Please._

"Everything looks good," Mitch says, hesitantly, and throws out some terms that mean nothing to John—Harold probably knows what they mean, and is probably better able to pay attention right now—a "can't be sure, but they look healthy," and "everything's right on track."

Everything except John himself.

After the ultrasound is wrapped up, Mitch leaves. John gets up from the exam table, and walks around the tiny room. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like how the table faces away from the door, though he knows that's for privacy. The art on the walls is too sterile. In a corner, there's a pair of headless, limbless models of a pregnant woman and pregnant man, both with detachable fetuses in their wide open bellies. They're creepy.

"I hate those things," Harold says, staring with revulsion as John pulls the baby out of the woman, looks it over, then pushes it back into place with a plastic click. "They're like something out of a horror movie."

"Imagine if it was that easy," John says. His voice sounds rougher than ever. His throat hurts. "If I could just—click." He mimes pulling something out of the front of his belly, then pushing it back in. Harold looks disgusted. "Pull it out when I'm sick of being pregnant, put it back in again to let it grow some more...click."

"No, thank you."

"Maybe I could even stick it in someone else." John considers the possibilities. "Fusco, maybe." It's always fun to torment Lionel.

"And I've always thought I was strange," Harold mutters. "Dear God." To John, he asks, "Would that even work with a male beta, though?"

Hm. Good point. "Leon?"

"Oh no, he's too irresponsible," Harold says. "The baby wouldn't stand a chance. Unless Detective Carter is willing to carry it—which I highly doubt—I suppose you're stuck with your weird detachable pregnancy. I'm sorry."

"Eh." John shrugs. "It was worth a shot."

He stands back and takes a good look at Harold. It's easier than focusing on himself. Not as easy as making weird comments, but easier. Hospitals make Harold "aggressively uneasy," and only someone who knows him like John could tell that doctor's offices apparently do so as well. The only signs of anything obviously amiss were caused by John—the wet stain on Harold's shoulder, the wrinkles in Harold's jacket, the grossed out look on his face. But he's tense as a bow string, and paler than usual.

And asking, "Are you all right, John?"

John decides to answer honestly. "I don't know," he says, and absently rubs his belly. "But I think I've got a lot of thinking I need to do."

Shortly after, Dr. Larsen comes back into the room. According to her, all of the screening tests she's done have been as normal as the ultrasound. "I really like what I've seen so far," she tells them. "I'm optimistic. But I want to do some more testing, just to be sure.

"I'm not trying to pressure you," she continues, "I promise. This is _your_ pregnancy, not mine. But the risk of genetic abnormalities and complications goes up as you age, especially when both parents are over 40."

"I'll keep considering it," John says. "If something's wrong...it would be good to have some warning, wouldn't it?" He looks to Harold as he asks, but Harold doesn't answer until they're in the car later, after Larsen's given him a clean bill of health and scheduled another appointment.

"It's up to you if you want to check for genetic abnormalities," Harold says. "I can easily make any digital records disappear. I already intend to erase everything Larsen has on you once you've given birth anyway; it'll be no trouble at all to erase more."

Digital records may be no match for Harold, of course, but a paranoid part of John's brain is worried about what will happen to the material being tested. It's unlikely that it would wind up in the hands of the CIA or some other government entity, but... "'Only the paranoid survive,'" he says.

His pants have felt uncomfortably tight around his waist ever since he got dressed again after the exam. Absently, he unbuttons them, and settles back against the seat with his hand on his belly, running his fingers over the sore indentation in his skin through his shirt.

 _"One of life's most magical experiences."_ John sighs.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I think it may be time for some new clothes," Harold says, mildly. "Or I can make some adjustments to those for you."

John waves him off. "It's okay," he says. "I'm just bloated. They still fit."

"They should fit _comfortably_ ," Harold says. "There's plenty of room in the budget for you to have pants that fit comfortably."

"Or maybe it's time for a change," John says. "Now that the Man in the Suit is supposedly dead, maybe I could become the Man in Sweatpants. Go around with my baby bump out. Paint a big 'S' on it." He draws a large "S" in the air for emphasis.

Harold gives him a horrified look. "I think you may have finally stumbled upon an offense that would make me fire you," he says. The corners of his lips twitch with restrained amusement, and John chuckles. "No, but seriously, John, it would be no trouble at all for me to let out the waistbands of your pants a tiny bit, or to slip in some discreet elastic panels. It won't work after you really start showing—you'll need new clothes for that—but it should relieve a little of your discomfort in the meantime."

Which came first, John wonders, the Harold who could tailor suits or the Harold who wore tailored suits?

"I'm not gonna have to switch to paternity suits, am I?"

"Heavens no," Harold says, looking offended by the whole idea. "All that polyester—and they're almost universally hideous. Not quite as bad as maternity clothes, granted, but unless you wish to look like that baby you're carrying—no, not even then."

"Friends don't let friends wear polyester paternity pants?"

"Precisely."

John's thoughts soon move on from the bloating in his gut to the tiny human growing in it.

"Hey, if you were the one who was pregnant," John says, "would you let them do genetic testing?"

"Hmm." Harold considers it for a moment. "I generally like having as much knowledge of a situation as possible," he says, "so, yes, I probably would. If they found a problem, I'm not entirely sure how I'd proceed, but I would appreciate the warning nonetheless.

"And also, if I were in your predicament, I'd want to find out more about the other parent," he adds. "On that note, if you want to know more about them, I'm sure I can find out who they are. Then I can look into their medical records for anything worrisome."

John considers the idea. Does he want to know? Of course he does. "Firetime Heat Club," he says. "Late January. Went in as John Rooney. Spent the night with a guy. You can probably figure out the rest."

"That's more than enough to work with," Harold says. "I'll let you know what I find out."

* * *

That night, John wakes up clutching his belly, heart jackhammering in his chest, breath coming in harsh and ragged gasps. _No,_ his brain is shouting on repeat, _no, no, no..._ as he jumps from his bed and paces the floor, adrenaline yelling for him to _run._

It takes a long time for him to hear Harold calling his name through the earpiece. In the background, he catches the jingle of keys.

"I'm fine, Finch," he grits out, but he's not. He's crying, choking on air, unable to let go of his protective grip on his abdomen. His throat is raw. "Just a bad dream."

"Oh, thank God." Harold goes quiet for a moment, then softly says, "You were screaming, John. I thought..."

John's face flushes hot, and he clenches his eyes shut. Then he sees coldness of his own eyes staring back at him again. His eyes snap open. The image doesn't go away.

"You were listening?" he manages to say.

"Always," Harold replies. "You know you can talk about it with me, don't you?"

But he _can't_. He can't think about it, but it's all he can think about, oh god, all he can think of is that terrible moment when... _fuck_.

"Sniper," he rasps. "The hospital parking garage, when Snow caught up to me. But I was..." His words get stuck in his throat. "I was pregnant this time. Very pregnant. Snow told the sniper to aim for my belly. He did."

Harold inhales sharply.

"Then I saw the sniper's face. It was..." His throat tries to close again, and he swallows hard. "It was me. And I was looking myself in the eye as I..." He doesn't want to remember what happened next, doesn't want to say it.

"I'm so sorry," Harold says. "Would you like some company?"

 _Yes,_ he wants to say, as much as he wants to say _no_ , too. His head is a wreck. Between every word, his mind goes back to the dream, to the hot blood on his hands and the coldness of his own eyes staring down at him. The eyes get to him more than anything—it's not the first time he's dreamed of something happening to the baby, not even the first nightmare co-starring Mark Snow. Elias, Donnelly, Kara, people he's killed—God, there are so many of them—have all done terrible things to him and the kid as he's slept.

But none of them had worn his own face.

"Maybe it's a sign," he says. "That I shouldn't...after everything I've done...there's a reason I was the shooter."

"Yes," Harold says, and John hears the sound of keys again, and Harold's stilted, hurrying footsteps, "because your mind was being needlessly cruel to you."

"No. No, I...maybe I really shouldn't be the one to raise this baby."

Harold doesn't respond immediately, but the sound of footsteps stops. After several long seconds, he finally says, "Oh, John," in a soft, broken voice, barely audible over the earpiece. "I really thought we'd settled this."

"I should give them to someone better," John continues. "Someone who isn't a killer. Someone who isn't me. My kid deserves better." Every kid deserved better, to be able to look up at their father and know they weren't looking at a monster. He heads for the table with The Files, flips through them frantically without seeing anything. "I want them to have someone better."

Again, Harold is silent for a while—long enough that John almost asks if he's still on the line. Then, Harold says, "You trust my judgment, don't you?"

"Yes," John replies, automatically.

"All right," Harold says. "I know I've said this to you before, but: Do you think that I would tell someone they would make an excellent father when they were, in fact, entirely unfit to be a parent?"

"No." There's a tightness building in John's throat. He swallows hard, and abandons The Files, goes back to pacing the floor. "But you're biased, Harold."

"Am I?" Harold says. "Do you believe I am likely to be biased in favor someone who is a completely irredeemable human being? Or, do you think I would _trust_ someone who is irredeemable?"

John can't speak. Trust?

"As a general rule, I do not trust anyone. But I trust _you_ , John. And I truly believe you'll make an excellent father."

It's like getting punched in the chest, a hard dizzying painful rush of air from the lungs and a drop of his body to his knees. Harold trusts him, explicitly. The person who knows him best, the one who's seen every file, who knows damn near everything, knows that he's tortured and seduced and coerced and killed— _brutally_ killed—people. Harold knows him, and he trusts him.

John buries his face in his mattress, and he sobs.

He doesn't know how much time passes until a knock sounds on the door, in a familiar pattern. Harold, of course. John can't bring himself to get up. Distantly, he hears the door open, the distinctive shuffle of Harold's gait. Soon, the mattress dips beneath Harold's weight, and a warm hand settles on John's head.

"I wish you could believe me," Harold says, so gently it hurts, and begins running his fingers through John's hair, blunt nails a light scrape against John's scalp. "I wish I could help you see how good you are, how much you deserve good things."

 _I'm not_ , he wants to say, but he can't speak. _I'm not, and I don't. How the hell can you keep saying that?_

"Not this," he manages to say, voice muffled against the sheets. "My kid deserves better."

"And you can give them better. _Yourself_. You are an immensely capable man, John, and you have so much love to give. I know you are more than capable of giving that love to your child."

"But I can't—"

"You _can_. John, this is something that you _can_ do, that you _can_ have. You _can_ let yourself have this. And you should. Your nightmare says nothing about your ability to be a good parent. It says that you have a lot of wounds that need to heal. And those wounds are trying to convince you to add to their number. Don't listen to them."

"But what if you're wrong?" He looks up at Harold, searching his face for answers. "What if I do this, and I fuck up?"

"Then I'll intervene," Harold says. "You know what I'm capable of, what resources I have. You know that I'd never let any harm come to your child—including from you. I may not be your physical equal, but I'm confident that I could find a way to protect the baby. Or I'd die trying—and rest assured, I _would_ try."

"And if that's not enough?" John asks. "What if you're not enough?"

"What if I am?" Harold pats the space beside him on the mattress. "Come here, John."

John's knees pop and ache as he gets up—God, he's too old for all of this. "I feel like I'm drowning," he admits. "All I want to do is protect my baby but I've suddenly forgotten everything I've ever known about protecting anyone."

"Well, if you're drowning," Harold says, moving his hand to John's back, stroking it, up and down the length of his spine, "there's the option of having a friend throw you a life preserver. And, in this case, I think the life preserver may be me having more faith in you than you do."

John realizes his hand still hasn't moved from his belly. He rubs it. "I want this baby," he whispers. "I want it so much I feel like it's gonna kill me. Those files you gave me? I never even read them. And I kept planning on looking on my own, but I kept putting it off, and..." Then, he looks Harold in the eyes and says, "You really will help?"

"That's what I've been trying to do, if you would let me." It comes out like an accusation, but then Harold winces, and it's suddenly obvious how tired Harold looks, how late the hour is. "I'm sorry; I didn't intend to say that so harshly."

"It's fine. Really."

"No, it's not." Harold sighs. "I had hoped my support would be enough to help you with making your choice. Clearly I was mistaken."

"No," John says, putting a hand on Harold's knee. "You've been a huge help already, Harold. I..." He draws in a shaky breath. "I don't think I could've gotten through this without you. And I think I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna keep the baby."

It feels more like he's telling himself than telling Harold. Maybe he is. But he doesn't know if he believes it yet.

"Oh," Harold says, sounding stunned. "That's..." His face breaks into a smile, just for a moment. "That is wonderful news."

"Really?"

"How could it not be?" Harold asks. "You're going to be a father. John, that's incredible—truly. I am exceedingly happy for you. And perhaps it's time you had some additional support from someone who's better at providing it than me—Detective Carter, maybe."

"You think I should tell Carter?"

"Yes," Harold replies. "I suspect you've been waiting to tell anyone else until you've either made it past the first trimester or decided to keep the baby, haven't you?" John nods. "Now that you've made your decision, perhaps you should be reaching out to someone else who's made it. And for your sake, I think you should do it sooner rather than later. This is a huge change. You need someone who's been there. Not just me. I've never had or carried a child. She has."

A suddenly insecure part of him wonders if Harold will take a step back from him if he starts confiding in her. John tries to ignore it.

"Also, I looked into that other matter we discussed this afternoon." Harold picks up a file lying on the bed and offers it to John. He opens it, and finds himself staring into the face of the alpha from the club, a young guy with blue-rimmed glasses and blue eyes, floppy brown hair, and an ugly orange bow tie. God, he really hopes the guy only wore that thing for Halloween.

"His name is Simon Bradford, twenty-three years old—"

John winces at that. "Ouch. Now I feel like a cradle-robber."

"—originally from Nebraska," Harold continues. "He's single, graduated from high school several years early, studied computer science at MIT, and—" Harold chuckles. "—believe it or not, he started working for IFT last year."

John raises his eyebrows. Now _that's_ interesting. "So basically, I slept with you."

That ruffles Finch's feathers. He purses his lips with disapproval, but relaxes when John grins and nudges his arm, and adds, "The discount version, obviously."

"You will be pleased to know that there's nothing particularly terrifying in his family's medical history," Harold says. "Just your garden variety heart attacks and strokes in a few family members. No one's been arrested for any violent crimes—"

"Not even by the fashion police?"

"Regrettably, no," Harold says. "Most of them have good credit scores, including Simon. I checked his social media, too—which wasn't easy; he had a very strong password."

"But not strong enough to stop you," John says.

"I happen to be aware of numerous websites' other security vulnerabilities," Harold counters. "Mr. Bradford has several close friends and a large number of friendly acquaintances he keeps in touch with—which rules out your theory that he's a younger incarnation of me, by the way, as does his abominable taste in fashion and his fondness for tarantulas and snakes."

"Not a fan of creepy crawlies, Finch?"

"Not particularly." Harold makes a face, then goes back to briefing John. "Judging by his posts on his Friendczar account, Mr. Bradford seems to have a good sense of humor, and isn't in any obvious conflicts with his family or friends. All my research indicates that he is who he says he is. He seems like a good kid."

"'Kid' being the key word there," John says. Twenty-three. God. Almost half John's age. Someone he could never tell about the baby, even if he'd wanted to.

"I haven't been to a heat club in many years," Harold says, "but from what I can remember, the alpha typically chooses the omega. Which means Mr. Bradford must have found you attractive—and, indeed, judging by his previous partners and several of the fanpages he follows on Friendczar, he seems to have a preference for tall, dark-haired, older men. You were exactly his type. There's nothing for you to be ashamed of."

"I could've said no," John says. "Probably should have. But I just wanted it over with."

"So you both got what you wanted," Harold says. "Considering that he's a young man of significant intelligence, he may find the company of people who are around his own age tedious."

"Speaking from experience there, Harold?"

Straightening up, Harold says, "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Reese."

That's all the confirmation John needs. He grins shamelessly. "I'm talking about you being into older women when you were younger."

"Who says it was just women?"

John's heart stutters in his chest. Harold wasn't just attracted to women.

 _It doesn't mean he's attracted to **you**_ , he scolds himself.

"Careful there, Finch," he says, aiming for playful, but feeling like he's missing the mark. "You're not gonna be able to keep up your 'very private person' persona if you keep dropping secrets like that everywhere."

"I'm not dropping them _everywhere_ , John," he says, quietly, an unspoken, _I'm dropping them with you_ hanging in the air. 

_"As a general rule, I do not trust anyone. But I trust **you** , John."_

Harold trusts him.

Before he can dwell on that further, Harold yawns and excuses himself for it, and John glances at his alarm clock. Almost four in the morning. Shit.

"Have you gotten any sleep at all?" he asks, and Harold heaves a sigh.

"I was busy," Harold says. "Thought I'd made a breakthrough with Ms. Stanton's virus, but it turned out to be a dead end. You're the one who needs all the sleep you can get right now. I'm fine."

"Yeah, and I got some." Before he can think it through, he's on his knees and undoing the laces on Harold's polished brown oxfords. "It's late. Sleep here tonight...this morning. I've got some stuff you can wear, and some of your meds in my first aid kit. I'll take the couch."

Harold starts to say something, but is cut off by another yawn. "Very well," he says. "But I'm not kicking you out of your bed. There's plenty of room for the both of us...although I might have to take all of your pillows." He says the last part with a rueful frown.

"I have extras," John assures him. If he didn't, he'd still let Harold have them all, if it meant preventing pain. He'd rob a pillow factory to keep Harold from hurting. He'd sew pillows himself, by hand, even though he sucks at sewing.

He tugs off one of Harold's brown and tan argyle socks and hands it to Harold, because he doesn't have to be told to know that Harold's probably as fussy with his absurdly soft socks as he is with the rest of his wardrobe. One of Harold's pinkie toes is crooked, like he broke it. Huh.

Harold must notice him looking at it. "A desk attacked me," Harold says, quickly rolling up his sock with practiced ease. "College. Yes, the desk was moving, and yes, a great deal of alcohol was involved. My friend Arthur was quite impressed by my vocabulary. Nathan was just terrified I was going to kill them both."

John laughs as he peels off the other sock and hands it over. "I bet." Harold must be exhausted to be letting him do this—though, as oddly-intimate gestures go, taking off someone's shoes pales in comparison to rubbing someone's upset stomach, he thinks.

Once Harold's feet are bare, John gets up and pushes his pillows over to Harold. "Fix 'em up however you need to," he says. "I'll go get the clothes."

By the time John's ready to turn out the lights, Harold is asleep on a careful arrangement of pillows, dressed in a soft gray t-shirt and some black pajama pants that are a little too loose. John holds off, hand on the light switch, and takes Harold in. Awake, Harold seems larger than life sometimes. He looks so small like this, so human. Sleep has erased the ever-present tension in his face, making him look younger, more innocent, like the world has never wounded him. If only.

* * *

He wakes up against Harold's side, with his head pillowed on Harold's chest, Harold's heart a steady, soothing beat beneath his ear. One of his legs is draped over one of Harold's, and one of his hands has somehow ended up on Harold's belly, underneath Harold's shirt. He's not the only one clinging—Harold has an arm around his waist in a sleep-lax hold, fingertips brushing the waistband of John's pants, and his other hand rests near John's head, like he'd been stroking John's hair.

John breathes deep, savoring Harold's scent from so close. He smells of warmth and sleep, sweat and traces of tea and cologne and old books, overlying the _power_ scent of alpha and a faint tinge of pain. It's familiar and utterly Harold, and it fills John with a pleasant glow with each breath.

On impulse, he kisses Harold's chest, over his heart. He should get up, he thinks, but he doesn't want to. The thought of moving makes him ache to the marrow of his bones. It's been so long since he's touched someone like this, since he's been held like this by someone he loves as he slept.

He wants nothing more than to bury his face against Harold and stay there, beneath the weight of Harold's arm. Maybe he'd explore the warm curve of Harold's soft, vulnerable belly with his hand, drag his palm up to Harold's chest, tracing the lines of a body he'd really love to see. Maybe he'd pull Harold's arm more tightly around him, then lie just as he is, sleepy and still, breathing in Harold's comforting scent.

But Harold could wake at any moment. John can't imagine this making him angry, but it could be embarrassing. Harold's been so open with him lately. The last thing John wants is for him to shut down.

Reluctantly, John untangles himself from Harold's embrace, with slowness and a great deal of caution. Harold doesn't stir. As he's pulling his hand from Harold's shirt, his fingertip accidentally skims over a small scar on Harold's side, then a few others nearby. His thoughts skid to a stop. Are those...shrapnel. They're shrapnel scars.

John swears mentally. Harold _was_ there when Nathan Ingram was killed. That was probably how he'd been injured. John had suspected as much, when he'd learned of Nathan and the ferry bombing, but shrapnel scars are a confirmation. Where else would Harold have been hit by shrapnel? It makes him want to curl more tightly around Harold, shielding him from the world. It fills his stomach with the sour weight of guilt—he's not supposed to know about them.

He tugs Harold's shirt back into place, using every ounce of self control he has not to reach out and touch Harold again, and gets off of the bed.

He decides to wait until Harold gets up to make breakfast. Just to keep his stomach from getting too angry, he fixes a piece of toast and heats a cup of the ginger tea he's been keeping in the fridge. As he nibbles, he flips through the file on Simon Bradford. Harold seems to have treated gathering info on Bradford—or perhaps John should think of him as Simon, considering what they did when they met—like digging into a number. He even has printouts of some of Simon's code. John's no programmer, but he knows enough to tell that it pales in comparison to Harold's. Most programmers' work does.

He's glad Harold's asleep, because it means he can't see John grinning like a fool over him.

There's an online dating profile in the folder, too. John skims over it, and a line about children catches his eye. _Doesn't want children_ , it says. He can't help but chuckle. "Should've been a little more careful there, Simon," he says, then instantly sobers. _He_ should've been more careful, too. Simon barely qualifies as an adult; John, though...

At least now any microscopic sliver of interest in telling Simon about the baby is gone. He'll let the boy go on living his life without a kid. If Simon decides he wants kids later, he can have them with someone he loves. This child's John's.

Something occurs to John as he keeps flipping through the file—it's _full_. He was wrong about Harold digging into Simon like a number. There's a lot more information here than he'd ever gather for a number. And while Harold is amazing at unearthing every last detail of a person's life, this probably couldn't have been done in a few hours, especially if he was also trying to figure out that virus.

Harold has had this file for a while and was sitting on it—why?

 _Because you didn't ask for it_ , his mind replies.

He should've realized this as soon as Harold gave him the file. Waiting is not how Harold Finch operates, and despite all his talk about respecting privacy, Harold is also incredibly curious—nosy, even. He probably started digging into who co-fathered the baby almost immediately. And since one of the main draws of Firetime Club is anonymity, he'd held off on giving John the information until he knew it was wanted.

It doesn't bother him. If the situation were reversed, John would've done the same damn thing. (But unlike him, Harold would've been _pissed_.)

The sound of a small whimper reaches him, and John's on his feet, headed for the bed. All the peace of sleep has gone from Harold's face. He's struggling against something, breathing hard and shallow. John calls his name, but he doesn't wake, not until John shakes his shoulder.

Harold wakes up gasping, and he holds up his hand and stares at the pink scar on his palm like it's new.

"Root?" John quietly asks, keeping his hand in place on Harold, and Harold nods slightly. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing for you to be sorry for," Harold says, catching his breath.

 _Except there is_ , John thinks. He wasn't there. Harold was taken, and _he wasn't there_ to stop it. If Root ever comes near Harold again, John will kill her. But for now...

"Hey. If you want to talk...I'm here."

Unsurprisingly, Harold doesn't take him up on the offer. John pretends it doesn't sting a little when Harold says, "Thank you, but I'd rather not," and fumbles for his glasses on the nightstand. Something must show on John's face anyway, because Harold pats his hand and says, "I'd just...prefer not to think about it."

Then, Harold must catch a whiff of himself and disapprove, because he wrinkles his nose and asks, "Would you mind if I used your shower?"

"You know where to find it," John replies, giving Harold's shoulder a squeeze, and he heads back to the table. Harold needs breakfast, though, so John detours to the kitchen, grabbing his tea along the way. Even though his stomach's churning, he gets to work. If he could handle the smell, he'd make eggs benedict, but eggs are an enemy now. He goes for waffles instead—a little less hands-on than pancakes, and, unlike pancakes, something he's seen Harold eat before.

He gets through setting things up and mixing the batter without incident. Then a dizzy spell hits him as he pours batter for the second waffle. He shuts the lid and sinks to his knees before his body can throw him to the floor. God, he hates this. His head and stomach spin in opposition to each other, both threatening to ruin his morning. Clenching his eyes shut, he drops down on his ass, and breathes through the storm.

 _"One of life's most magical experiences."_ When he gets to the Library later, he's finding that book and throwing it in the trash.

He doesn't know how long he stays on the floor, but it's long enough for Harold to finish showering and come rescue the sad half waffle.

"Am I right in guessing your answer will be 'pregnant' if I ask you how you're feeling?" Harold asks, voice dry.

John manages a weak laugh. "Sounds about right," he replies, and chances a look up. Harold is ladling batter onto the waffle iron. He's wearing his suit from yesterday, minus his vest. "You cook?"

Harold holds up his phone. "I Google," he says, with a chuckle, then sets the phone down and turns his attention back to cooking. "No, actually, I do know how to cook a few...exceptionally mediocre things without burning anything or giving anyone food poisoning. I just don't have your education or interest. I've always had other things taking up my time."

"I could teach you," John says, and decides to try getting up off the floor. He pulls himself up by the counter, and it feels like only his death grip on the edge keeps him from going down again.

 _"God, you are such an omega,"_ Kara had said to him once, derisively, when he'd offered to teach her. That he'd offered after helping her kill four people—and that she was an omega herself—hadn't made a difference. _"Makes me sick just thinking about it. One of these days, you're gonna wind up barefoot and pregnant in some asshole's kitchen. It's disgusting."_

If she'd known that he'd end up here—literally barefoot and pregnant in his own kitchen, offering to teach an alpha how to cook—she probably would've skipped the timer on his bomb vest, or skipped the vest altogether and put a few bullets in his head.

John shoves thoughts of her aside, and adds, "When I'm not feeling so pregnant."

"Oh, I don't want to cause you any trouble," Harold says. "I do know enough to feed myself."

"Yeah, but you like learning things, too," John points out. He wants Harold to say yes, maybe even needs it. "When I'm feeling better, let me show you how to do more than just feed yourself."

Harold appears to be considering the idea, so John gives him a hopeful, questioning eyebrow raise. Finally, Harold says, "Very well," with a long-suffering tone and look, and John's insides do a victorious swoop. "When you're feeling up to it, I will let you attempt to turn me into a good cook."

John can practically hear the unspoken, _Good luck_ , and he grins. He always has liked a challenge.

* * *

He doesn't get the chance to tell Carter for a while—or to turn the numbers over to her and Fusco like they'd discussed, either. Leon coming up again is easy to handle, then the next case is in Atlantic City. They decide to deal with that one themselves, too, and it ends in him, Harold, and Leon playing a game of Russian Roulette with a casino owner and the number.

It also dredges up Harold's feelings for Grace. John tries to offer comfort. He's pretty sure it's not effective.

HR rears its ugly head again, taking out Detective Szymanski and an ADA—and why wasn't there a number then, John wonders; there's no way those murders weren't premeditated.

A brilliant tech exec is their next number, while John's in the middle of one last failed attempt to recruit Shaw. Shaw turns up in the Library later, then takes off to hunt down Root. And Monica Jacobs' case helps finally give the threat against The Machine a name: Decima Technologies.

As they wrap up the Jacobs case, they get another number for another familiar face. It comes in far too late. Before they can even do anything, Cal Beecher is dead.

It hits Harold hard. Harold got into this business to save lives, hired John when he couldn't do it himself. John wonders if it takes him back to the days when he had number after number coming in and no way to help.

"We should've been able to save him," Harold says.

Gently, John says, "We can't save everyone."

"No," Harold says, "but we should've gotten his number sooner. We should've been given his number in time, but we weren't. We should have been able to save him.

"I said when I hired you I was offering you a chance to be there in time. Now..."

"I'm not gonna just stop trying, Finch," John says. "Are you?"

"Of course not." Harold sighs, and slides his glasses back on. "I have a lot of data to sift through right now. You might as well go home and get some rest, Mr. Reese. I'll see you tomorrow."

Before he leaves, John fixes Harold a cup of tea and sets it on the desk, earning the faintest smile and a quiet, "Thank you."

"If you need anything," John says, giving Harold's shoulder a squeeze, resisting the urge to kiss the top of his head, "anything at all, you know where to find me."

"I do," Harold says, with another tiny, grateful smile. "I'll let you know."

Harold doesn't call, but John didn't expect him to.

While the rest of the world seemingly goes to hell, John's pregnancy slips from the first trimester into the second. It's like the first breath of fresh air after being locked up in a hellhole somewhere for three months—something he, regrettably, also has first-hand experience in. His energy level goes back to normal, his stomach feels calm...

Too calm. A few nights in, he makes a batch of chocolate chip cookies, and he winds up devouring the whole thing before bed. _So much for sharing them with Harold_ , he thinks, chuckling as he rubs his full stomach. Maybe he'll make something fancier for Harold, like linzer cookies, little sandwich cookies filled with jam, or maybe pretty French macarons. The extra effort they both take might keep him from gorging on them in a fit of pregnancy-induced hedonism—and if thinking of it as "pregnancy-induced hedonism" isn't another sign he spends too much time talking to Harold, he'll eat his cookie sheet.

Harold needs cheering up, though. John ends up baking a pan of brownies the next morning, and enjoys the way Harold lights up and says, in a hopeful voice, "I take it this means you're feeling better?" far more than the brownies he takes for himself.

And they're damn good brownies, so that's really saying something.

Some of the hell in his head seems to let up, too. John can't tell if it's because his hormones have let go of the wire they had to his throat or if it's because he's made a decision. The never-ending urge to fight and scream and cry and run has ended. He can think, _I'm having a baby,_ with only the tiniest frisson of fear. He can touch his belly without that nauseating gut drop of terror.

Which is good, because he can't seem to stop touching his belly.

He lost some of the slight softness on his middle to his morning sickness, and his gut isn't so bloated anymore, so it's easier to tell that something is changing. Just the tiniest new curve to his lower abdomen, only obvious because he's looking for it. His hands are drawn to it. He lies awake studying it with his fingers, falls asleep with his hand splayed over it. He holds it in the shower, in the car, everywhere, sits with his hand resting against it as Harold briefs him on the increasingly rare numbers.

John examines the impulse. It's soothing to touch his belly; it settles something deep within his soul. There's a constant need to _protect_ thrumming beneath his skin that's only satisfied by covering the small swell with his large hands. An incessant need to _connect_ , too, to assure the baby that he's there and he cares, even though the kid can't even tell yet. An effervescent thrill of excitement from contact with the precious secret within him.

And, to be honest, his bump feels...weird. Unfamiliar. He knows his body, is used to having either a flat stomach or one softened slightly by too many breakfast pastries with Harold and Bear. Now his belly is getting bigger for another reason. He loves it, this tangible reminder that he's carrying his child, but he can't deny that it's strange. Everything about pregnancy is strange. There's another being sharing his body, changing its shape, growing without his input. One day, they'll be a full-blown _person_ , with thoughts and ideas and a life. It's weird.

"Pregnancy is weird," he blurts out, in the middle of another numberless afternoon. Harold hums in acknowledgment, and John continues. "I've got another person inside me right now." He pokes at his belly. "That's..."

"Weird?" Harold suggests.

"Exactly."

The tense, deeply unhappy look Harold's worn for days turns to amusement, and his fondness for Harold comes flooding back into focus, full-force. "That _is_ the main point of pregnancy," Harold says. "Growing one's young inside one's body until the child is sufficiently developed to survive on the outside."

"Yeah, but..." John trails off. "You ever see _Alien_ , Finch?"

"Oh good Lord," Harold mutters. Aloud, he says, "Your alien invader is roughly the size of a lemon right now, Mr. Reese. I'm fairly certain it won't be bursting out of you anytime soon."

"Yeah, I know, but knowing I've got somebody in here...kind of keeps me wondering if it's gonna turn out like that." It's difficult to convey just how weird it is, how surreal, so he switches to another part of the experience. "Oh, hey—I'm starting to get a baby bump."

"Really?" Harold's eyes widen, and he turns to look at John's belly. "Could I—" His cheeks flush, and he glances away quickly. "Never mind."

He must've decided it was inappropriate to ask to see John's stomach, John thinks. To hell with what's appropriate. "Do you want to see it?" he asks.

"Yes, yes," Harold says, tripping over the words slightly. "I do. If you don't mind of course."

"I wouldn't ask if I minded, Harold." He gets up from his chair and goes to Harold's side, unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his pants along the way. Then, he pushes his clothes aside, exposing his barely curved belly. "It's not much, I know—you might not even be able to tell, but..."

"I can tell," Harold says, a grin spreading on his face. "Oh, look at that. You are starting to show. Could I take a picture, maybe? Someday the baby might want to see what you looked like while you were carrying them."

He hadn't even thought about pictures. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Go stand in front of the windows—the light is better over there."

John does as he's told, making sure to angle his body for the best shot of his profile. Harold takes several pictures with one of the cameras they use for the numbers, and directs John to cradle his lower belly for the last few.

"There we go," Harold says, tapping at the buttons on the camera. "I'll have to adjust these in Photoshop, but—oh. Oh, this one is very nice. Come here."

It's the first shot of John holding his belly, and he's looking down at it with a fond, unguarded smile on his face. With _love_. Somehow, Harold captured something John hadn't even realized he was doing—showing off how much love he has for his baby.

"Print out that one when you get done with it," John says. "I want a copy."

"Of course." After Harold sets the camera back down, he lifts a hand, moving it close to John, then drops it back down to his keyboard. "That really is amazing, John."

_"I assure you, I will be quite gentle if I touch you."_

John wonders how Harold would react if he took one of his gentle, hesitant hands—the same ones that calmed John's queasy stomach weeks ago—and placed it on his belly, if Harold would allow him to try.

Then, to his surprise, Harold reaches out again, and says, "May I?"

John can barely find his voice, but manages to say, "You never have to ask. Anytime you want...you can. You can."

Harold's eyes widen, then his fingertips brush John's skin, a featherlight touch below his navel. Something in John's chest and gut twists, breaks, shatters, as Harold traces his fingers over the faint swell. His eyes are huge behind his glasses, his gaze so reverent it hurts to look at it. John watches his hand instead, the way those fingers move over his skin—shy at first, then growing more certain as he learns the contour of the tiny bump.

"Remarkable," Harold whispers, finally laying his palm against John's curved belly. John sighs, and places his hand atop Harold's. Harold smiles. "Look at you."

Their eyes meet, and John's struck by how impossibly blue Harold's are behind his glasses. Why hasn't he noticed that before? Or is knowledge of the true color of Harold's eyes another one of those things he's forbidden himself from thinking about, out of fear that it might make him wish for something?

Something he feels like he's on the precipice of gaining or losing.

Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to kiss Harold. His gaze flits to Harold's lips. He wants to know how those lips feel on his, if Harold is as good with his mouth as he is with computers. What does Harold taste like, beneath the grassy sweetness of his tea? What sounds would he make for John to swallow down? Would Harold let him have that nebulous _something_ , or would it be the end of everything?

They're so close. It would be so easy to bridge the gap between them. And it could ruin everything.

"Thank you," Harold says, voice unusually rough, "for showing me this."

"Of course." John smiles at him. "And thank you." His voice catches, and he finishes with a whisper, "for being there for me. And for telling me I could have this. Thank you."

Harold smiles back, and says, "Always."

The moment is broken by Bear, who comes over and sticks his cold, wet nose to John's belly, below Harold's hand. John jumps at the touch. They both laugh, and Harold pats Bear's head as Bear gives John's bump a good lick.

"I think he knows," John says. He sinks down to tussle with Bear. Bear is gentler than ever with him now, and seems especially wary of harming John's belly. But he's still eager to play. John mock-wrestles with him, moving them away from Harold's desk, and tells Bear he'll be a good big brother as he teases him and ruffles his fur and his ears.

He glances up, and catches Harold watching them play, smiling softly. Their eyes meet again, and Harold's smile widens slightly, before Harold turns back to his computer and immerses himself in his coding again.

John can't shake the feeling that everything has changed.

* * *

The minute John realizes they're dealing with polonium, Harold pulls him from their next case.

"This is non-negotiable," he says. "You're _pregnant_ , John."

"I can help him find out who killed him, Finch."

"And if the situation goes sideways, and you end up dosed with polonium?" The pitch of Harold's voice goes higher. "A bulletproof vest will do nothing to protect the baby from radiation. I'm calling Detective Carter."

Carter, understandably, wants to keep monitoring Fusco's developing IAB situation and objects to taking over, until John jumps into the conversation and says, "Joss, I'm pregnant," cutting off her protests. "I can't do this one."

She goes silent for a while. John is starting to wonder if she's hung up the phone when she says, "I'm sorry, I thought I just heard John say he's pregnant."

"I am," he says. "We can help Fusco, but we need you to help Dr. Nelson."

Again, she goes quiet. Then, she heaves a sigh and says, "We are gonna have a long, _long_ talk about this later, John."

As Harold briefs her on Nelson's case, John heads back to the Library to fetch Bear. They have a trip to Oyster Bay to make.

* * *

By the time John makes it back, he's exhausted, sore, and covered in nearly as much mud as Bear, and Carter has found Nelson's killer. John stops at the Library to drop off Bear, and Harold ropes him into giving the dog a bath. As they work, Harold lets him know that Azarello recanted his story. And since Soriano won't find a body in the morning, Fusco should be off the hook for now.

Harold also voices a suspicion John's had for weeks: Something is wrong with The Machine. What Harold doesn't say is that there's not a damn thing they can do about it. The virus will go live very soon. John really doesn't want to know what will happen when it does.

After, John goes home to clean up himself, then grabs a massive burger that he wolfs down in the car without tasting, and he heads for Joss's place. She hasn't made it back yet, and Taylor is staying with his grandmother for the night, so John lets himself in and waits.

When Joss gets home, she greets him with her customary, "What the hell are you doing in my house?" then turns her attention to that morning's revelation. "And what the hell are you doing pregnant?"

 _You walked right into this one,_ he thinks, ignoring her ire as he says, "Well, you see, Carter, when an omega has their very special time and meets an alpha—"

"Okay, okay, stop!" She drops down on the couch beside him. "I knew something was up with you guys. I knew you smelled different. I just didn't think... _John."_

"I know the feeling," he says.

"I'm gonna _kill_ Finch. And if you didn't have a baby in you, I might go after you, too. Doing your work while you're pregnant. What the hell was he thinking—what the hell were _you_ thinking?"

John sighs. "There was no one else. We tried to get a replacement, but she said no."

Joss shakes her head. "Oh my God. So you two just...kept on going like you weren't pregnant?"

"No," he says. "I've been more careful. Been wearing my vest whenever I go out in the field, keeping my distance from the action..."

"Sure you have," she says, sounding unconvinced.

"Okay, I _did_ kick some guys' asses in Jersey not too long ago," he admits, "but they kind of deserved it, and I didn't let them hit my gut." He'd snapped the wrists of all the ones who'd tried. "And I've been shot at a few times...maybe more than a few." He decides he'd better not mention that some of those shots connected, or that Russian Roulette incident. "But I haven't thrown anyone through a window or crashed any cars in weeks. Personal record there. Kind of miss doing that, actually, but..." He shrugs.

"Anyway, vests," he continues, "good ones. Custom-made, of course. Specially designed to give my belly extra protection. Got a few of them, and Finch is gonna commission more once I outgrow them." He lets his hand rest against the barely-there curve of his abdomen. "He spared no expense."

"And if a vest's not enough?" She shakes her head. "I am so tempted to arrest you just to keep you from doing anything else this stupid."

"But arresting me never ends well," he says, unable to hold back a smirk, "does it?"

She heaves a sigh. "John, I'm serious. You continuing to act as though everything's business-as-usual is putting that kid of yours at risk."

"I know," he says, sincerely. "But I'm not acting like everything's business-as-usual. I'm being careful—really. I'm only engaging if I absolutely have to now...mostly. But there's no one else who can do what I do. Don't you think if there was, Finch would've found 'em by now? He _hates_ having me out in the field right now. But we're doing what we can with what we have, and what we have right now is me."

"You could've asked _me_ , John, and Fusco! I'm a mom, and he's a dad. We get it. If you'd've told us what was going on, you know we would've helped."

"You couldn't have, though," John says. Not with The Machine malfunctioning. Days without numbers, only getting Beecher's moments before his death, never getting Syzmanski's or the ADA's at all. Right now, Harold needs someone who knows about The Machine working with him, or someone they can safely tell. Joss and Lionel have too much to lose. "Not with all of it. We're dealing with some...complications in our operation right now."

"Complications?" Her eyebrows rise. "What kind of complications? Is it 'cause of the baby?" She lowers her voice to ask, "Is Finch giving you a hard time because you're pregnant?"

"No," John says, quickly. "I can't tell you what's going on, but it's got nothing to do with the baby. Harold's being great."

"Really? He's not doing any weird alpha BS or anything? I know he's been sterilized." John must show his surprise, because she taps her nose. Huh. If she hadn't had a family back home, the CIA would've loved to have her nose. "You're not the only omega who can sniff out trouble, John. I know some alphas can get all weird and nasty when an omega they're close to's pregnant with someone else's kid, especially if they can't have their own—even if they chose not to."

"Not Harold," he says, almost a growl, and Joss scowls. She's just being protective, he knows, but he's protective, too, especially when it comes to Harold. "He's been great." He flashes her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "I promise. Besides, you know Finch—when has he ever behaved like anyone else?"

"True," she says, with a laugh. "You know, one of the first things 'Norman Burdette' told me was that he'd—what was it?—'never been accused of being like most people.' Think it might be the most honest thing Finch has ever said to me."

"Sounds about right," John says, with a chuckle. "Harold is...Harold." Then, more seriously, he adds, "And he's a good man."

"He's taking good care of you, then?" she says.

"Yes."

She smiles. "I'm glad. You might be a big and tough ex-CIA guy, but pregnancy is crazy. All those hormones messing with your head, and knowing that after it all, you're gonna have a kid to take care of? Man. But you don't have to do this alone, John. You tell anyone else yet?" Before he can ask who he'd tell other than her and Lionel, she adds, "Besides Finch, of course."

"I didn't really tell him," he says. "I just thought I was dying 'til he went, 'Have you considered taking a pregnancy test, Mr. Reese?'"

She laughs. "Yeah, that sounds about right for you two."

"You can tell Fusco, if you want," he says. "Other than him? Who else is there?" Zoe, maybe. She's earned the right to know, he thinks. He'll probably tell Joan when he can find time to stop by the camp, and Han when he comes back to the park after the cold and his arthritis let up. Leon will just have to figure it out on his own as John's belly gets larger. Other than them?

"Uh, the other parent?" Joss says, like it's obvious.

Right. Him. "He's not in the picture." She looks sympathetic and opens her mouth to say something, so he cuts her off with a shrug and a blasé, "One-night-stand. Heat club."

"And you boys haven't hunted him down yet?"

"Oh no, we have," he says. "But telling him? With what I do, that's probably not a good idea." She looks like she wants to say something still, so he adds, "He doesn't want kids, and I don't need his help raising this one. It's fine."

She sighs. "If you say so."

"You think I should tell him."

"Being a single parent's tough, John. And with your career..."

 _I'll have Harold_ , he thinks automatically. Will he? Harold's been there for him since the pregnancy started, and his name's going on the birth certificate, sure, but once there's an actual child to take care of? That's not Harold's responsibility, it's John's.

"I'll figure it out," he says.

Joss gives him a sympathetic look that plainly says he has no idea what he's getting into. Then, she smiles. "How far along are you?"

"About fifteen weeks," he replies, and finds he's smiling, too. "Give or take."

"Gettin' to the good parts now," she says. "Yeah, the second trimester was the best for me—and the easiest. Not throwing up every five seconds and not so big you never wanna do anything ever again unless it's getting that baby out. You start getting that cute little bump, and you start feeling that sweet little baby move...you're gonna love all of it."

"I hope so," he says. "I'm really glad to finally have some energy again. And my appetite. You're worried about my kid, but this kid's been kicking my ass, Carter. Maybe you should be worrying about me."

"Right, right. Tough guy like you can't handle a baby."

"That's right," he says.

But it's too close to the truth, and he must not hide that very well, because Joss puts a hand on his arm and says, "Hey. You've been imagining the worst, haven't you?"

John shrugs. "Who the hell would trust me with a baby?"

 _"You trust him with a baby?"_ He wonders if she even remembers saying it. Judging by how taken aback she looks, she does.

"You even listen in on his conversations?" she asks, and John gives her a tiny, unapologetic shrug. He's a spy. What does she expect? "No wonder you two get along so well."

Then, she sighs. "Look, I didn't know you that well when I said that. Then you saved that baby, _and_ you went and saved my baby's life a little while later—that's something else you need to be ready for, by the way. No matter how old they get, they'll always be your little baby.

"Hey, John? You can do this. I know you're scared. God, I was scared out of my mind when I found out I was pregnant. Spent the whole nine months and then some thinking about how I couldn't handle it, how I wasn't ready, how I'd never be a good mom. Sometimes I still feel like that."

"You?" He lets out a disbelieving laugh.

"Yeah, me," she says. "I think everyone who's gonna be a good parent's scared to death once they find out they've got a baby on the way. If you're not scared, something's not right. And you're obviously terrified. That's a good sign, John—really. You're gonna be a great dad."

He ducks his head, and can't meet her eyes, not when his own are starting to sting and water. "Thank you," he whispers, choking up. "That..." He clears his throat. "That means a lot."

"Am I the only one who's told you you'll be a great dad?" she asks. "John..."

"I've lost count of how many times Harold's told me," he says, and she looks mollified. "But it's...hard. To believe it. Even coming from him. Usually when he says something, I believe it, but..." He shakes his head. "Not this time."

"You're never gonna believe it," she says. "Sorry to have to tell you that. You're never gonna believe you'll be a good parent. But you will be. Doesn't matter if you believe it or not. You love your kid and treat 'em right, and you'll be just fine.

"And if you have any trouble, you know I got your back, right? And so does Harold, and Lionel will, too. But I do know a bit more about being pregnant than either of them, so...you need anything—anything at all, even if it's just to bitch about back pain and heartburn and swollen ankles in a few months—you call me, all right?"

"I will," he says, though he probably won't. "Thanks, Joss."

"No problem," she says. "And you know what? I'm glad to finally be getting some good news for a change."

"Good news?" He stares at her in disbelief. "You really think this is good news?"

"Uh, _yeah_. A good friend of mine just told me he's gonna be a daddy," she says. "Of course it's good news—it's great news!" Then, her expression turns sad. "It's about damn time someone told me something happy."

"I'm sorry," he says, and squeezes her arm. "I hope things turn around for you soon."

"I'm sure they will," she says, and pats his hand. "John, parenthood's not all being terrified and worrying you're gonna mess the kid up, just like it's not all dealing with all the gross parts or the crying. Taylor's the best thing that's ever happened to me. There's a lot of great stuff. That first real smile, their first laugh, first steps, first words. Playtime. Watching them learn, watching them grow into their own person. All the love. It's worth it.

"Let yourself enjoy being pregnant," she says. "Eat everything you want—make Finch go out and get you pickles and ice cream or whatever at three a.m., or if you just get hangry all the time like I did, anything whenever. Rub that belly of yours, talk to it, sing to it—even if you suck at it. Make Fusco give you a foot massage in a few months."

"Fusco?" John laughs, and so does she, but her laughter dies away fast.

"Fusco," she repeats, bitterly. "I don't even know what to think of him now. After all he's done..."

"He's trying. He's made some mistakes—"

"Mistakes?" she says, voice rising. "Mistakes? You call—"

"Listen, Carter, no one's ever looked at me as the moral benchmark," he says. "If you knew even half the things I've done, you'd never say I'd make a good dad. You'd be making plans to take my kid away from me, for their protection, and, honestly, I would probably kill you." She flinches.

"Fusco's safe, for now," he continues, "but I can't make up your mind for you. He's either your partner and your friend who's trying to do better, or he's a dirty cop that you're gonna lock up. You have to make that call yourself."

"Yeah," she says, looking away. "Yeah, I do. But it's _Fusco_. It's not that simple."

"Most things aren't."

It's about time for him to leave, he thinks. He's tired, and his stomach's already forgotten the burger and is asking for pizza. And Carter needs some time to think.

"I should be heading out," he says. "Need to go keep an eye on Harold. Someone's gotta keep him from working too hard."

"Always looking out for everyone else." She chuckles weakly, shaking her head. "You know the first thing I'm gonna do when you get out that door is call him up and yell at him, don't you?"

"Of course you will. He's been expecting it for weeks." He grins at her and walks off. At the door, though, he stops, and he turns to her and says, "He really is being good to me, Joss. Don't be too hard on him. And don't jump into anything with Fusco. Think things over before you decide."

He goes to get the food, and when he gets to the Library, he finds Harold in conversation with Joss over speakerphone, her asking, "Do you understand just how vulnerable he is right now?"

"I do, Detective, very well," Harold snaps as he walks around his desk, limping heavily, his hands against his lower back. "You and I want the exact same thing: We both want what's best for John and his child. And I assure you, he is not facing this alone. I have been—"

Bear jumps up, tail wagging, giving away John's presence. Harold smiles as he watches Bear run over and circle around John's legs. Then he turns his attention back to his conversation long enough to tell Joss they'll "discuss this matter further later" before hanging up.

"My ears are burning," John says. "You two been talking about me?"

"You know very well that we were." Harold stretches his back carefully. "Detective Carter was _not_ lying when she told you she intended to yell at me." As always, there's a moment when John suspects he should be bothered by Harold listening in on his private conversations, but he isn't. "You were right to tell her. She cares a great deal for you."

Something dawns on John then: Not once has he been alone in this. Huh. Since the day he found out, Harold has been by his side, as promised, urging him to let himself have what he wanted. And now he has Joss, too, ready to defend him as needed. People he would readily defend himself.

It's been a while since he's known, without a doubt, that good people have his back. It feels good.

Harold sits down more cautiously than usual, with the tiniest sigh of relief, and John ignores the urge to ask if he's okay. It would be a stupid question. Instead, John brings over the food—a pepperoni pizza for Harold (that John will probably eat most of, if it's like other pizzas they've shared, because Harold's "not fond of" reheated pizza), and one covered in an absurd amount of black and green olives for himself. Harold takes one look at John's and raises his eyebrows.

"I had a craving," John says, grabbing a slice. It's not the entire truth: he also wanted to see the incredulous look on Harold's face at the sight. He's not disappointed.

"I suppose I should be grateful it isn't pickles and ice cream," Harold says, eying John's pizza like it's a poisonous snake.

"That's for three a.m.," John retorts, and takes a big bite. God, it's exactly what he wanted, salty and tangy and cheesy and perfect. It takes a lot of restraint to keep from moaning. "Do try to keep up."

"Ah yes, of course," Harold says, picking up a piece of his own pizza but not eating. "Followed by a whole bottle of Tums at three-thirty."

"Catching on fast, Finch." John grins. Then, because he can't resist prodding, he adds, "Or you've done this before."

Harold sets down his slice, and sighs. John expects to be chided for prying, but instead, Harold says, "Nathan craved chicken fried steak and Southern-style sweet tea during his pregnancy. The tea was easy enough to figure out—the kind he liked was just glorified sugar water, practically undrinkable—but he spent his entire pregnancy calling me at ungodly hours because apparently no one in New York got chicken fried steak exactly right and his wife was sick of him complaining to her about it." As he speaks, Harold slowly begins smiling. "Every single night, for months, 'Harold, theirs was too hard,' 'Harold, theirs was too soft,' 'Harold, theirs was too salty,' et cetera, et cetera. I learned more about incorrectly-prepared fried meat in nine months than I ever wanted to know."

"And you listened."

Harold groans. "Oh, God, please don't get any ideas, Mr. Reese. Would you like to know the worst part? He finally found a place with some he actually liked the day before he gave birth to Will, and I had to hear about _that_ for the next few decades."

And John would bet Harold would give anything to hear his friend complaining about bad chicken fried steak again.

The story also answers one of John's questions. "So, Nathan Ingram _was_ an omega."

"You don't sound surprised."

"Something you said about mint tea and morning sickness," John explains. "I figured he was who you were talking about. Unless there was someone else you were that close to who got pregnant."

"No, no one else," Harold says. "It was a very difficult secret to keep. When we started IFT, omegas didn't become CEOs, especially not male omegas who'd carried a child. Then, by the time it was somewhat acceptable, I was working on The Machine, and IFT didn't need the extra attention. Very few people ever knew that Nathan was actually an omega. We both took great pains to ensure that nobody found out about it.

"I suspect this is the point where most people would ask if it bothered me, being an alpha with an omega having the spotlight."

"I've never been accused of being like most people," John says, choosing those words deliberately, and earning a quiet snort. "But I'd like to think I know you better than that by now. You prefer the shadows. Nothing wrong with that. You do good work there."

" _We_ do," Harold corrects, and finally takes a prim bite of his food. John resists the urge to grin. It's always fun to watch fussy Harold eat foods like pizza.

Once Harold's swallowed, he says, "I'd like to think we've been doing some good, when things are working as they should."

Harold's expression turns pensive. John waits, quietly eating, for him to work through what's on his mind. "I think..." Harold pauses. "I think you and Nathan would've liked each other. You're quite different from him, but there are certain similarities. Sometimes, you remind me a little of him. Others, it's striking how entirely unlike him you are. But I think the two of you would've been very good friends.

"If nothing else, you certainly would've had a grand time conspiring to drive me insane."

John chuckles. "And by driving you insane, you mean dragging you away from your computer and making you eat and sleep?"

"Yes."

They settle into companionable conversation, eating their food and chatting about nothing important. No virus, no HR, no more personal ghosts. With a mischievous gleam in his eyes, Harold steals a piece of green olive from John's pizza. John retaliates by snagging some pepperoni straight from Harold's slice as Harold's taking a bite. Then, because it's Harold, John gathers up some of his olives and sets them aside for him. In return, Harold tells him about the history of pizza, and John sits back and listens.

He'd almost call it a perfect night, if not for the shadow of HR creeping up on Fusco somewhere and the way both their gazes keep going back to the virus countdown. It's the calm before the storm. He can only hope that they're all still standing once it blows over—if it does.

Eventually, Harold trails off, and they both watch the seconds count down on the monitor in silence. The food gets cold. Harold never eats the small pile of olives.

"That storm on the horizon that I mentioned," Harold says, sometime later—despite watching a clock, John can't say how much later. "I'm afraid it's arrived."

John's hand goes to his belly, a promise of protection he doesn't know if he can keep.

* * *

Their next number—after a ten-day dry spell—is a familiar one, though they don't realize it at first.

Ernest Thornhill. Details on the man are vague—no age, no mention anywhere if he's alpha, omega, or beta. CEO of a data entry company, and apparently a big fan of payphones, since he keeps on buying up payphone companies, too.

He's also not human.

The end of the countdown is hours away. Crime is on the rise throughout the city. Root is creeping out of the darkness again. And Ernest Thornhill is The Machine.

 _What the hell did you **build?**_ John wants to ask. But there isn't time. He's too busy getting arrested at Thornhill's apartment—thanks a lot, Harold—then bailed out by Shaw's unconventional methods.

And Harold is probably with Root.

All of his plans to keep that from happening again suddenly mean nothing. He has a tracker on Harold, but he and Shaw are still several steps behind. He can't take Root down if he can't keep up with her.

They wind up in a shootout with Decima agents at Thornhill's office, while an older alpha stands in the middle of it all, seemingly unfazed. The head of Decima himself, John guesses, and if the guy was never in the same kind of business that he and Shaw used to be in, John will be stunned.

Like he is when the man tells him who sold the Ordos laptop.

"I guess your friend Harold has some explaining to do," Shaw says, covering him on their way out, shielding his belly with her body without prompting.

It's worse than a gut punch. It's a betrayal. Though he manages to conceal it well, fury burns his blood, the kind that usually ends in violence. He wants to hurt something, someone. Harold. Harold said he'd never lie to him—omit things, yes, but this isn't just an omission. This isn't just a secret.

Ordos was the mission that changed everything. If he'd never been sent to Ordos...

For the first time, he thinks of walking away. Forget the numbers, The Machine, everything. Take Bear, and leave Harold to rot with Root. But the thought of abandoning Harold to Root kills the impulse. It lets a little clarity slip into John's brain.

Something doesn't _fit._ The Harold he knows and loves—loved?—wouldn't have sold a laptop with Machine-related code on it without a damn good reason. That's not how Harold operates, especially when it comes to The Machine. He compared uncovering knowledge of The Machine to a potential outbreak, called himself "patient zero."

Had Harold been so wildly different at one point that he'd willingly hand code related to The Machine over to someone for money he didn't need, not caring if people died? Was the head of Decima lying? Or did Harold have a plan?

If Harold _did_ sell the laptop, he probably had a plan. And the man John knows likely never wanted anyone to get hurt while he carried it out.

All of the anger drains out of John. He still believes in Harold, despite everything. If Harold wasn't a good man once upon a time, he is now, or he's trying. John decides to cling to that. He's not a good man either, but he's trying, too.

And there always seems to be some clever plot twist around the corner when dealing with Harold, something that gives John yet another reason to have faith in him. He has to believe Harold has a plan. Has to. If it turns out he was completely wrong about Harold, it might kill him. Because he just can't believe that the man who's been so kind to him, who gave him a purpose, who convinced him it was okay to keep the baby he wanted so desperately, who got him to live again ever meant to hurt anyone.

"So," Shaw says, "are we going after him, or..."

"Yes."

Shaw looks like she wants to protest. Instead, she says, "Fine. But I'm still driving."

* * *

They finally track Harold to the New York Public Library, and wind up going on a wild goose chase to keep up with him. And Harold does something John never would've expected—he gives John direct access to The Machine. All the world's secrets, readily available. He can find out anything he wants, almost. He merely has to ask.

John just has two questions he needs answered. The second, he asks The Machine in private. "Can I trust Harold Finch?"

"Yes," it replies, using a random female voice. Then, in John's own, it adds, "Always."

But The Machine refuses to give him what he asks for first: Harold's whereabouts. So he and Shaw follow The Machine's breadcrumbs, always several steps behind Harold and Root, until they wind up in a nuclear facility in Washington.

The Machine is gone. When John asks if that's what Harold expected, he replies, "It's what I hoped."

Harold goes on to reveal that he'd sent The Machine's code out into the world in an effort to protect it, since he'd locked himself out—a virus within a virus, teaching The Machine to protect itself. He'd been thinking several steps ahead of everyone else, as usual. And also as usual, John can't help being impressed.

Harold did have a plan after all.

And part of his latest one was for John to stay home, and continue working the numbers if Harold didn't return. Not an option. Before John can say that he won't do it without Harold, the alarms stop blaring.

A government official John doesn't recognize and some agents show up, Hersh among them. If they'd brought anyone but Hersh, John might've had some hope. He beat the guy once—with morning sickness, no less—but he's not used to fighting with this vulnerable weight on his gut yet. They aren't getting out of this alive. For the first time in years, John can't accept it. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want his kid to die.

He won't go down without a fight, but he doesn't think that this is one he'll win.

Harold presses his hand to John's belly and his gaze meets John's, silently pleading for something. _Don't intervene? Think of the baby?_ One of the many things John's wishful thinking asks for?

Then Harold pulls away, and steps between John and Hersh's gun. It won't help—Hersh will kill them both without hesitation, not sparing a thought for John's pregnancy even though he's an omega himself. John briefly rests a hand on the faint curve of his abdomen and looks Hersh in the eyes. Hersh's blank expression doesn't waver. John didn't expect it to.

Only the risk of someone else shooting keeps him from putting a bullet between those eyes.

Harold stands tall and confident, his alpha side shining through as the beta government official asks about The Machine, tries to persuade Harold to build another when he learns no one controls it anymore. The man makes the mistake of trying to give Harold his word that any of Harold's terms will be met.

"You gave my friend your word," Harold says. "And you killed him."

Then, with Harold's imperious, "We're leaving," they're walking out alive.


	3. Chapter 3

They make it to the private plane Harold books without being killed. It's a definite victory, but everyone's too tired to celebrate. After so long spent awake and on his feet, Harold seems to be in the worst shape of all of them, Root and her gunshot wound excluded. John doesn't give a damn about Root. He hopes she hurts, especially when Harold shifts slightly in his seat, then freezes, murmuring the tiniest, "Oh."

It twists painfully in John's chest, like a stab with a dull blade. Now he's glad he'd thought to grab Harold's emergency med bag—the one they both pretend he doesn't know about, holding bottles of pills ranging in strength from prescription ibuprofen to the strongest dose of oxycodone available. Wordlessly, he pulls the small bag from his coat pocket and offers it to Harold.

Harold's whispered, "Thank you, John," is shaky. Their fingertips brush as he takes the bag, and John's skin tingles from the contact.

John doesn't watch to see which Harold chooses, respecting his privacy in this. For anyone else, the level of pain Harold must be in to be letting it show would have them reaching for the strongest, but Harold is Harold. It could be the ibuprofen he takes with a sip from his bottle of water, or the oxy, or one of the ones in between. They could all be sugar pills. You don't always know what you're getting with Harold.

_"The man who sold the laptop in the first place...the man who is to blame for all of this. That man's name is...Harold Finch."_

He glances back over at Harold, whose dark-encircled eyes are closed, but not peacefully, tight with pain at the corners. Who is sitting so still, jaw clenched, one hand in a white-knuckled grip on the med bag, the other balled in a fist on the armrest between them, water bottle squashed between his thighs. Who stepped between John and a gun tonight. Who sold the laptop that sent John to Ordos, that kept him from saving Jessica.

Who lost his closest friend and his future with Grace at the hands of the government. Who probably got his injuries in that explosion that killed Ingram, though John's never asked and Harold's never said. Who faced the people responsible tonight and somehow walked away.

Who saved John from himself, from others, gave him a second chance at doing good, a second chance at life. Who convinced John to keep the baby. Who John loves—loved?

No. _Loves_.

But John doesn't know what to feel now. Anger? Betrayal? It isn't there. There's no flood of rage in his veins anymore, no urge to punch or stab or strangle or shoot, no burning need to tear Harold apart. No hatred. Where is it? His connection to the world was ripped away from him, and because of Harold, he couldn't stop it.

No, not because of Harold. Harold wasn't the one who gave the kill order. Harold wasn't the one who killed Jessica. He might've built The Machine, might've sold the laptop, but...

_"You gave my friend your word. And you killed him."_

But Harold also lost his connections to the world. Nathan was dead, and Grace thought Harold was dead. Harold must have been in agony when he sold that laptop, and not just physically. He was completely alone. All he'd had left was The Machine, and he'd needed to get the code to protect it out there somehow.

John thinks of Jessica's picture in the safe. She _had_ been a number, as he'd always suspected. And John wasn't the only one who hadn't been able to save her. Isn't the only one carrying the guilt.

John is, however, the only one who couldn't bring himself to say, _Wait for me_ , to Jessica at the airport. If he had...

Harold exhales quietly, and some of the tension throughout his body dissipates. The painkiller must be kicking in. A knot in John's chest loosens, and lets go completely when Harold hands back the med bag. John returns it to his pocket, and tries to doze off.

A flutter low in his gut catches John's attention. His eyes snap open. It's the tiniest flicker of sensation, but it's _different._ Almost like someone's trying to tickle his insides. If he wasn't so constantly aware of his body, he probably wouldn't have noticed. He holds still, waiting to feel it again. He does, and lays his hand on his belly.

"Is everything all right?" Harold asks, a note of worry in his drowsy voice.

"I felt something," John replies. "I think it's a good something, maybe—sort of a fluttering."

"Probably the kid moving around," Shaw says, flopping into the seat next to him. "Gonna be a while 'til anyone else can feel it, though—sorry, Harold."

"I'm aware, Ms. Shaw," Harold says. "What makes you so sure Mr. Reese will allow me to feel his baby kick when it's possible?"

 _You'll be the first person I let feel it,_ John wants to say. He doesn't.

Shaw stares in disbelief at Harold. "Are you serious?" she asks, then shakes her head. "You know what? Never mind. I don't care about your baby drama. God, I hate pregnant people."

"We hate you, too, Shaw," John says, pleasantly. "Aren't you supposed to be keeping an eye on Root?" He doesn't buy that catatonic act, not after all the time he spent protecting "Caroline Turing," only to have her snatch up Harold. Then snatch him up again months later.

"I heard she likes sedatives," Shaw says, with a nasty, gleeful smirk. "Gave her a taste of her own medicine. She'll be out for a while."

Good. He still remembers the glazed look in Harold's eyes at that train station, the unfamiliar docility, the tiny needle mark in Harold's neck. She hadn't been gentle when sticking him, Harold had very reluctantly admitted. He still remembers walking into that house, finding Weeks bound and dead, and thinking for a few brief and terrible seconds that it was Harold. Still has nightmares about Harold leaping for Root's gun in the train station, and it ending differently, with Harold's blood burning his hands.

They should've left her behind, he thinks. Let Hersh take care of her. But sometimes, Harold is far too kind for his own good. He's probably already trying to come up with ways to redeem her.

"Anyway, I'm thinking about that job offer," Shaw says. "I found Root, so now I need a new hobby. And John here's not getting any less pregnant, so: What do you guys and that pet AI of yours actually do?"

Harold tells her. It's similar to the explanation he gave John in the beginning, about The Machine and the numbers, but without the same dramatic flair—no "ten thousand eyes" or "a million ears." Shaw is difficult to read. It's hard to tell if she's interested, but she does keep listening, even when Harold states his preference for resolving cases without killing anyone.

"It's not always possible, unfortunately, but—"

"We're trying to be the good guys here," John says. "Which means we aim for kneecaps."

Eventually, Shaw goes back to her seat, and John manages to drift off to sleep. He has the sniper dream again, scene for scene and word for word. Only this time, the shooter is Harold.

John wakes up gasping, one hand on his belly, the other firmly held in Harold's. He jerks it back and scrambles away, until he's backed up against the plane's opposite wall, his gun out and aimed.

"John?" Harold is wide-eyed and terrified, and he shrinks back, holding up his hands. "It's just me, John."

"Stay back."

"I am, I am," Harold says, staring at the gun. "You were dreaming, John. No one's going to hurt you here. Please, put the gun away." His gaze meets John's. "It was just a dream. You are on your way back home. You and the baby are safe."

"Safe?" John lets out a bitter laugh. _Are we really safe around you, Finch?_

"Right now, in this moment," Harold says, "the two of you are safe. Tomorrow? Who knows? But for now, _please_ , put away the gun, John."

Reality clicks back into place. He was dreaming. There is no threat here. Harold may not be harmless—John will never make the mistake of thinking that—but he isn't a threat. Not now. Harold isn't armed. Harold hates guns.

And they're on an airplane. If he fires and somehow misses— _I won't miss from this range,_ he thinks. _I've never missed from this range._ If he pulls the trigger, Harold will be dead.

"Hey," Shaw calls out, "I really don't want to have to shoot you again 'til after you pop, Reese, so if you could put that thing up, that'd be great."

"Sorry," he says, sheepishly, and tucks the gun back where it belongs. Harold exhales.

"No apology necessary," Harold says, straightening up. A wince flickers across his face, barely long enough for John to see, then he's regained his composure like nothing out of the ordinary happened.

Cautiously, John approaches him, headed for his old seat. If Harold shows any signs of fear, he'll sit elsewhere. But Harold looks relieved when John sits down beside him.

"Try to get some more sleep, Mr. Reese," Harold says, gently. "Ms. Shaw will make sure nothing happens."

John lets his eyes fall shut again. He doesn't dream.

* * *

By the time the dust settles and the numbers start coming in again, Harold has apologized for Ordos, Root has been committed, and they learn Carter has been demoted. John tracks her to a case Shaw's wrapping up, and learns what happened while they were chasing The Machine: she used lethal force on a perp with a gun, and HR intervened. It's infuriating, and he knows that blow won't be softened by him telling her she "looks kind of badass in that uniform," but he says it anyway. It's true, and it makes her laugh.

"You know, if you want another job," he says, "we could really use another pair of hands right now."

He knows before she speaks that she'll never accept, and she doesn't. She's a cop, through and through.

She doesn't say what happened when HR went after Elias, and he doesn't ask, doesn't care. If HR got him, the trash took out the trash. If not, Elias will turn up again soon enough.

"But speaking of uniforms, I see you traded in yours for something else," she says, eying the charcoal gray sweater and—reluctantly purchased, but necessary and, admittedly, comfortable—paternity jeans he's wearing.

John shrugs. "Finch thinks it's a bad idea for me to dress up as the Man in the Suit right now."

"Damn right it is. Anyone sees the the Man in the Suit with a baby bump—ooh boy." She shakes her head.

"I told him I was gonna switch things up and become The Man in Sweatpants." Joss laughs. "He didn't like that very much."

Joss lets him know that she told Fusco about the pregnancy, too. "Sorry if you wanted to break the news personally, but you said I could tell him, and..." She nods to his belly. "You're not keeping that a secret much longer."

"Saves me the trouble," John says, then frowns, and puts his hand to his middle. "Wait—I'm not that big, am I?"

"You look cute," she says. "I promise. But when a fit guy like you starts getting a poochy tummy after being sick for a few months, people are gonna notice. And he did, so I went ahead and told him."

That's fair. "Let me guess—the first words out of his mouth were, 'Ah, jeez.'"

"Got it in one," she replies, with a laugh. "He was all, 'Is Wonderboy knocked up?' and acted like it's some big inconvenience for him, called you an idiot for keepin' on doing what you do—guess that's not gonna be an issue anymore, since you got Miss Terrifying back there—but I think he's happy for you. Been calling your kid 'Wonderbaby' and everything.

"Speaking of Wonderbaby, how're they doing?"

"Okay, I guess? Moving around some, demanding chocolate and olives—not together..." He pats his belly. "They're getting their picture taken again tomorrow. Supposed to be doing the amino-amnio-whatever thing, too—the needle thing?"

"Amniocentesis," Harold pipes up over the earpiece. He sounds distracted.

She winces. "Ooh, that's not fun. But you damn well better let me see those pictures." She crosses her arms, and he grins. "Wait, you said 'again.' Are there some other baby pics you haven't shown me? Are you holding out on me, John?"

John shrugs. "There's video. Two ultrasounds. You'd have to ask Harold to—"

"I have the video ready," Harold says. "I can send it to her, if you'd like."

John gestures toward his ear. "Finch has video, if you want it."

"Of course I want it!" she says. Soon after, her phone beeps, then beeps again. She takes it from her pocket and frowns. "Okay, that was real creepy, Finch."

The perp in the back seat of her squad car bangs on the window and yells, "Come on!" They ignore him.

They watch the first video together, her grinning, him blinking back tears. It's that first ultrasound—the one he'd bolted from. His kid had been so _tiny_ then, barely anything at all yet unmistakably alive. The little blob was moving, and it had a heartbeat flickering away. And he'd been too out of his mind when it was recorded to absorb it all.

"I should've given this one to you much sooner," Harold says, and John wonders if he's watching the video himself. "I'm sorry."

 _You've already given me so much more_ , John wants to say, or, _We both know I was too messed up for it for a while_. "Thank you, Harold," he says instead, unable to hide the roughness in his voice.

"You're welcome."

They watch the second video, too. John's suspicion that Harold is watching as well is confirmed when Harold goes, "Oh, look at that," with an obvious smile in his voice as they get a good glimpse of the baby's movements. John finds himself grinning, too, even with his misty eyes. It's _fun_ to share this with someone who's excited for him, with two people. He's not at all used to things like this, to being so domestic and close to normal.

It's nice.

* * *

With the world settling into something vaguely resembling normalcy, some of John's other needs reawaken. His libido especially.

It's grabs him at the worst possible times. When he's helping Harold research a number. When he's talking to Harold about a case. When he's having takeout with...oh. That's the common thread: being around Harold.

Realizing that doesn't erase the need that screams beneath his skin. It's a craving, irrational and difficult to ignore. He can push it aside throughout the day, but as soon as he gets home, his clothes are coming off the second the door's locked behind him, and his earpiece and phone get banished to the bathroom.

Getting a taste of touching Harold, of having him on his bed all those weeks ago turns out to have been a colossal mistake. His mind conjures up the memory with ease. The smell of him, sweat and books and sencha tea, human, alpha, concepts like _comfort_ and _important_. The perfect shape of his bones beneath John's body. The contrast of his cushy, soft belly against John's firm, pregnant one. The hot temperature of his skin.

He closes his eyes, and Harold is under him again, naked this time, skin shining with sweat, a filthy smirk on his face. _"Touch yourself, Mr. Reese,"_ he orders, voice low and dark, and John obeys—how could he not?—sliding his hands down his body.

His fingers brush over his nipples, and he hisses. They're sensitive now, never have been all that interesting before. _"Play with them,"_ the Harold in his head tells him. John rolls them between his fingertips, sending sparks running down to the depths of him.

 _"Very good, Mr. Reese,"_ Harold says, a smug grin spreading across his face. _"Could you get off like that, I wonder?"_

 _"No,"_ John lies. He could, but he'd rather be touched, filled, by himself or someone else. _"Please, Harold, please..."_

Harold sighs like he's disappointed. _"Oh, very well,"_ he says, then his expression brightens. _"Rub your belly."_

John runs his hands over it, caressing the firm swell under the faint softness of his flesh. His hands still cover most of it, and he arches into the touch of them as he slides them over his skin, following the curve. He's getting bigger—not huge, but obvious, the round jut of it now difficult to hide. He probably just looks chubby, he suspects, but he _likes_ it, and the Harold in his head does, too.

 _"Just like that, John,"_ Harold says, tenderly, and Harold's touching it, too, pushing one of John's hands away. _"Mine. You both are **mine**."_

John whimpers.

What would Harold order him to do next? Slide a hand down to his cock, like he's doing now? Go back to teasing his nipples? Open his mouth for Harold to fuck it?

That hits him with punch of _want._ He groans, and strokes himself faster. Yes, he likes that idea. Licking away the salty wetness at the tip of Harold's cock, swirling his tongue over the sensitive head, taking the whole thing in. Swallowing him down until he can't breathe, until the world narrows to nothing more than Harold's cock on his tongue, in his mouth, salty and hard and perfect. God, he wants to _choke_ on it, until his face is a wet mess and his throat is a raw wreck and Harold is telling him to stop because he wants to fuck John properly instead.

And oh, God, just imagining Harold saying something as crude as _fuck_...

He hasn't used toys in a while, but he needs to be filled, now. He finds a neglected black vibrator in his nightstand drawer, never used, no batteries, thick. Perfect. It's too damn bad omegas only get wet during heat; it would make this a little faster.

He wastes no time in getting his fingers slick with lube and sliding one _in._ It's not enough, just an ember of the fire he's chasing. Another, then. Better. He fucks himself on his fingers, but two aren't enough, either, are merely frustrating. He needs more. A third brings it up to near painful, the delicious stretching burn running like an electric current from his hole to his gut to his brain. _Yes_ , he thinks, whispers, pushing his fingers in as far as they'll go, pulling them out, again and again until he's ready.

It's much easier to pretend with the toy, when he can't feel himself wrapped around his own fingers. He clenches his eyes shut and imagines. _"Fuck yourself on me, Mr. Reese."_ He holds the still vibrator steady with one hand and moves down on it, using hips and thighs and knees, not hands, grateful for the strength of his muscles. His body burns around the toy, on the edge of something hotter and better. He adjusts the angle, and...

"Oh, _fuck._ " He moans as it hits the right spot inside, speeds up so he can feel that exquisite jolt again, over and over, faster. He loses himself to the rhythm, heart pounding, breath gone ragged and harsh, everything turning to desperation and need.

 _"Can you touch yourself again, Mr. Reese?"_ John somehow manages to wrap his free hand around his aching cock. He uses the rhythm of fucking himself to get awkward friction on his cock, unable to find the brain power to stroke himself at the same time. He's getting closer, closer, so fucking close. His thighs tremble from his effort, his body burns, his mind begs. _"Look at you, doing exactly as I say. You're so good for me, John. Always so good for me."_

"No," he rasps. "I'm not."

_"You are. Now come for me, Mr. Reese. Let me see you."_

And he does, the imagined voice of Harold encouraging him along as he spurts hot and fast all over his hand and the swell of his belly, until his mind goes blissfully blank.

He sinks down on the bed and flops onto his back, panting, toy lying beside him. His body feels like he could go again—it's like being in heat, with his dick still half-hard and his nerves sparking and his skin burning. He runs his hand over the wet mess on his belly, moving down toward his cock. Does he want to go again?

The jolt of lust when he takes hold of himself says yes. He's never been able to get off more than once outside of a heat. Being a pregnant omega has its perks, apparently.

It's faster this time, much faster. He doesn't need a fantasy, though he grabs hold of it anyway when he closes his eyes and sees Harold again. Harold's dressed this time, in one of his nicest gray suits, and when John comes again, he delights in imagining himself ruining those beautiful clothes.

It takes the edge off. He luxuriates in the post-orgasm haze, ignoring the omega whispering _"One more time?"_ in the back of his brain. He's sticky and hungry, he needs a shower, and another lonely orgasm won't give him what he really wants.

As he lies still, the baby starts to squirm, stealing his attention. Grinning, he presses on his belly, trying to feel the kicks from the outside. No dice. It's still too light, like a tiny bird learning to fly inside him, fluttering and tumbling and oh so small. Would he have compared it to a bird before meeting Harold, he wonders. Has Harold had that much of an influence on him?

Yeah, he probably has.

"Did I wake you up?" he asks. "I would say I'm sorry, but it's your own fault. If you wanted to sleep, you shouldn't have been throwing hormones at me."

He goes to take a shower, pausing to set his earpiece and phone outside the room for privacy, then gets off one last time to thoughts of Harold watching him through a hidden camera he knows isn't really there. With a dirty grin, John faces a corner of the shower and performs, running the lather of his soap over himself with deliberate slowness, showing off his body, lingering over nipples and cock and belly, turning to display his ass as fucks it with his fingers.

"You like watching, don't you, Finch?" he says, voice and laughter ragged, and he comes.

It finally calms the desperation in his blood, but he gets out still feeling energized and restless. And hungry. God, he's so hungry. He should combine the two, he thinks, as he towels off. Channel that energy into cooking something elaborate and involved.

He still owes Harold that cooking lesson, too. Maybe it's inappropriate to call him after casting him in a mental porno, but as soon as John's dry, his earpiece goes in and he's getting in touch.

Harold agrees, and John starts planning.

The trick to get Harold into cooking with him, he muses as he gets dressed, is to get technical. Specific measurements, logical steps, order instead of controlled chaos. Not John's usual style, unless—baking. He'll have Harold help him bake something, but what? Something that'll take a little effort, he thinks. And for Harold, he'll need a recipe.

Recipes. For the first time in years, he wonders what ever happened to his grandmother's and mom's old, handwritten cookbooks and their recipe clippings after his mom died. They're long gone now, he guesses, but they would've been a nice thing to have.

God, he thought any sentimental side he had was beaten out of him by life decades ago.

The baby moves, and he thinks maybe he'll make something like those cookbooks for them. He's sure Harold could figure out a way to make sure the kid gets to keep it, even if something happens to him and Harold both.

"If something happens to me," he says, putting his hand on his belly, "I want you to remember me like this, not how some stranger tells you to. I'm not a good man. A lot of people will tell you that. But I'm trying. I've been trying so hard for so long, and honestly, I'm not very good at it." He half-expects Harold to comment on that, but the earpiece stays silent. "But sometimes all you can do is try, and that's what I'm doing."

Can the baby even hear him yet? He's not sure. He keeps talking anyway, the words pouring out.

"I hope you have to put up with me for a long, long time, but I know I can't promise you that. So I just...I guess I just want you to remember any good things I do, not anything else. Because I've done some things that I hope you never know about. Things that are bad enough that you'd be taken away from me, if the wrong people found out. Things that are bad enough that I should probably let someone else raise you.

"But I'm keeping you. And I'm going to fight like hell to be the father you deserve."

He dries his damp eyes on the sleeves of his sweater, and hopes they won't still be red when Harold gets there.

And now he wants comfort food, he thinks, something creamy and warm. Chicken pot pie, maybe? It's easy, but it has a lot of steps. That should work. He doesn't need a recipe for it, but he searches the internet for one anyway, and finds one similar to how he makes it. For the crust, he usually cheats and gets something from the store, but since he's trying to teach, he'll make it from scratch, too.

Harold is subdued when he arrives, and carrying a box of the most decadent-looking chocolate cupcakes John has ever seen, each piled high with dark frosting and dusted with chocolate shavings. "You mentioned that the baby's been demanding chocolate," he says, handing over the box, "and I couldn't exactly bring someone in your condition a bottle of wine to have with dinner, so. Cupcakes." He gives John a weak smile. "They have a chocolate ganache filling, too."

They sound perfect, but John doesn't give a damn about cupcakes right now. He thanks Harold with a grin that falls away into concern once Harold's back is turned, and observes Harold closely as they head inside. Whatever is troubling Harold, it's not physical—his limp isn't any worse than usual, and John doubts he would've accepted the invitation if he were ill. Emotional, then.

"Are you okay?" he asks, once they reach the kitchen, not expecting an answer.

Harold responds with a deep sigh. "I resolved some issues regarding Grace today. After what happened with Ms. Groves, I decided that it would be best if I erased the last few things I had connecting myself to her. And I did."

There's not much John can think to say on that. He settles for an, "I'm sorry," which he knows is inadequate, and puts a hand on Harold's back, between his shoulder blades. Harold leans slightly into the touch. "Would you like me to get you a drink?"

"I deleted everything I had monitoring her," Harold says; John's not sure he even noticed the question, "except for the proximity app, of course. I sold some of the businesses I owned that were giving her work, killed one of my identities, even deleted the photograph I had of us on my computer. I have printed copies, of course; I locked those away in a safe deposit box on my way here—and I've done the same with all of the pregnancy pictures I've taken of you, too."

It's been weeks since The Machine freed itself, though, and he's just now tackling the issue? Something has Harold spooked. 

"Hey," John says, "what brought this on?"

Harold takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. "I hacked into Ms. Groves' treatment records this afternoon, and they were...troubling. Either she is delusional—"

"Probably," John says.

"—or she and The Machine are somehow still communicating with one another." He slips his glasses back on. "She's been telling her doctor that The Machine has a plan for her. And if that's the case—or even if it's not—I cannot trust any computer with an internet connection, no matter how strong my firewalls are. Quite frankly, I am frightened of whatever that plan might be."

"Is The Machine a threat now?"

"That's the thing," Harold says, "I don't know. So much of what it's capable of, of what it may choose to do is beyond my own wildest imaginings. I spent years trying to train it to be benevolent, and I truly hope I succeeded, but I cannot be sure. All we can do now is wait and see what it intends to do."

 _"The thing about children,"_ John remembers, _"is you never know how they're going to turn out."_ Had Harold been talking about more than Elias then?

"And even if The Machine isn't a threat? Other people most certainly are." Harold sighs. "Just by watching Grace, just by keeping one picture on my system, I was putting her at risk. She can't defend herself—not from the sort of threats we face almost every day. So I think it might be best if I finally remove the greatest threat of all from her life, completely: myself. No more watching, no more meddling. Her life will be her own now, completely."

Harold is trembling slightly, so faint John can only tell by touch. Heart aching for him, he rubs Harold's back. "That's gonna be tough for you, isn't it?"

With the tiniest nod, Harold whispers, "Yes."

John longs to hug him, but doesn't think it would be appreciated. Instead, he fetches a tumbler of his nicest whiskey. The smell makes his stomach turn. He carries the bottle with him and sets it on the counter, just in case Harold needs more.

"Here," he says, pressing the tumbler into Harold's hand.

"But you can't drink. It's not fair if I—"

"Harold, you're hurting," John gently says. "It's fair."

Looking down into his drink, Harold shakes his head. "I don't know what I ever did to deserve you, John."

 _You saved me,_ John thinks. _You gave me everything that's good in my life. I love you._ "You brought me cupcakes," he teases, earning a microscopic hint of a smile. Then, sincerely, he says, "You told me I needed a purpose, then gave me one. And you were right, as always."

"'As always?'" Harold snorts. "Hardly." He takes a sip of his drink, then softly asks, "Is it wrong that I also might have made this decision partly for my own benefit? If I decided that—perhaps selfishly—it may be time for _me_ to finally move on as well?"

He looks up at John with wide, impossibly blue, questioning eyes. John's heart skips a beat, and his breath catches. No, this is not the time for wishful thinking. Keeping his voice level, he says, "You deserve some peace."

"Do I?"

"Yes," John replies, and moves back to Harold's side, where he belongs. Harold shifts closer. "You said I deserve good things. If a man like me somehow deserves good things, someone like you definitely does." He strokes Harold's back again. "You deserve some peace, Harold. You deserve to be happy."

They stand side by side for a while, quietly. John keeps rubbing Harold's back, in steady strokes, up and down. The significance of being allowed to touch Harold's damaged back, of Harold not pulling away as he runs his hand along the length of his spine, is not lost on John. The significance of being allowed to touch Harold at all is never lost on him. And the man who wouldn't even say he liked a diner's eggs benedict actually confiding in him?

Harold really does trust him.

And if he knew what John had been fantasizing about earlier...

Harold straightens up, and sets his mostly-full tumbler aside. "So, what was it you planned to have me assist with?"

The matter of Grace is closed, for now. Harold will say nothing more, and John won't pry.

"Chicken pot pie," John says.

"Huh," Harold says. "I'd almost forgotten that existed, actually. Sounds like fun."

"I was thinking we'd use a few recipes I found—the crust and the pie—and I'd show you a few ways to make it better."

The great thing about trying to teach Harold something is that he's eager to learn. His mind soaks up knowledge like a sponge, and he actually listens to John's explanations. The rare times Harold does ask a question, it's after careful consideration, not because of inattention.

Harold's not a complete novice, either, thank goodness, and definitely not hopeless. There will be no wondering _How the hell did you screw **that** up?_ tonight, John thinks. Harold's not the type to inexplicably burn things or combine mismatched ingredients. He's just someone who doesn't cook, and who probably gets distracted by his computers when he does.

They work well together, as good a team in the kitchen as they are in the field. And Harold seems to be enjoying himself, smiling freely when John compliments his efforts, even laughing when he manages to spill flour all over his vest. "Oh dear," he says, chuckling, and making a futile attempt to brush the powder from his clothes, "perhaps I should've dressed down a bit."

"Just a little," John agrees. It's not a vest Harold wears very often. And Harold looks _cute_ like this, with his rolled-up sleeves and his flour-covered belly and his self-deprecating but real smile. It makes John feel giddy inside. He _loves_ this man standing next to him, a fierce kind of love that hurts like hell and feels amazing all at once. If things were different, he'd kiss Harold's adorable, smiling face.

But even though things aren't different, John's proud of himself. Thanks to him, Harold has gone from upset to almost cheerful. _He_ made Harold smile like this. The wounds in Harold's soul were aching, and something John suggested doing is making him laugh. He must be doing something right.

"I never did like this one very much anyway," Harold says. He straightens his glasses, and gets a streak of flour on his face. Without thinking, John reaches out to brush it away. Harold's eyes widen, and John hears his breath hitch.

"You got some on your cheek," John explains, voice gone low and quiet without his permission.

Harold's skin is so soft and warm, and flushes pink at John's touch. John lets his fingers linger longer than necessary, skirting along the edge of Harold's sideburn, tracing over the curve of Harold's cheekbone. Harold's face isn't conventionally attractive, but it is, unapologetically, _Harold's_ face, compelling and utterly his own. And John would like to touch all of it, kiss all of it—the thin skin beneath Harold's eyes and the crinkles at their corners, the sharpness of Harold's slightly beakish nose, the crooked line of his lips, the little dimple in the middle of his chin.

Every day, it gets harder to resist the impulse. It's like pulling apart powerful magnets when John drags his hand away to show Harold the white on his fingertips. "See?"

"Oh," Harold says, with a note of something John can't identify in his tone. "Thank you, Mr. Reese."

Then, Harold's lips curl in another smile. "I'm not the only one who's sullied their clothing, I see." At John's questioning look, Harold nods to John's belly.

John glances down, and he laughs. There's a streaky, white handprint smeared across his sweater, where the baby's been kicking the most. He must've rubbed his bump when he wasn't paying attention. Reflexively, he rubs at the area again. "Oops."

"That sweater shows off your abdomen quite well," Harold says. "I mean—"

John can't resist teasing, "You calling me fat, Finch?"

"No!" Harold looks horrified, and is blushing all the way to the tips of his ears. "Of course not. I just...pregnancy is...it's being very kind to you right now. You look..." He clears his throat. "Very, um. Very good."

It's obvious Harold wants to say something other than "very good." John wonders what it is. Instead of asking, he thanks Harold for the compliment, and suggests they get back to work. Harold looks relieved.

They get the pie crust ready to go and put it aside, then switch to fixing the pie itself. It takes a lot of chopping, and after teaching him the proper way to cut, John leaves Harold to it.

He's probably more watchful than he should be as Harold handles the knife. Most days, Harold is good with his hands—and isn't that an entertaining thought?—though John's noticed him having issues with them a few times. Tonight, they seem to be working fine. Anyone who can piece together the delicate insides of a computer as well as Harold can on good days can wield a kitchen knife. Knowing that doesn't keep John from staring, tensed, ready to jump in at the slightest hint of danger to Harold's pale, vulnerable fingers.

Harold doesn't cut himself. He doesn't even come close. But John doesn't breathe easily until everything is chopped and the dirty knives are by the sink.

* * *

By the time the pie comes out of the oven, it'll be late, so they decide to dig into the cupcakes beforehand. At Harold's suggestion.

"I've never fully understood why it's so terrible to have dessert first," Harold says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "As long as you eat your vegetables eventually, well..."

John laughs. Harold is going to corrupt the baby thoroughly, isn't he? "So when my kid's too full to eat their broccoli, I'll have you to thank for it, won't I?"

Harold gives him a bland, innocent look that falls apart with a twitch of his lips. "And I'm sure I'll have no idea what you're talking about when that day comes, Mr. Reese."

They share a grin, and they head for the table with the box of cupcakes and cups of tea—Harold's customary sencha, and rooibos for John. As they sit to eat, John realizes he's never seen Harold eat a cupcake. It'll be fun, he thinks, watching Harold battle all that frosting.

He makes sure to grab plenty of napkins.

Then, the smell of chocolate hits John. It promises exactly what he's been wanting for days, rich and sweet and intense. Forget watching Harold; he needs that cupcake.

As John loses himself to the chocolate, an amused Harold asks, "Should I leave you two alone?"

"I'm open to a threesome," John says, after swallowing another bite. "You, me, these cupcakes..."

"Wouldn't that be more of an orgy?" Harold asks. "It sounds rather...sticky, in any case." He wrinkles his nose, then eats some of his cupcake. "But I do see—or taste, rather—the appeal."

By the time John's satisfied, he's eaten two more cupcakes and is sitting back in his chair, a hand resting on his belly, and Harold's been watching him with a smile for a while. "What?" John says. "Did I get some on my face?"

"A little bit," Harold says, gesturing toward John's cheek, and John wipes his face, "but no, that's not it. You seem so...happy these days. Content. And after, well, everything, I must say, I am so pleased to see it."

John thinks about that for a second. Happy—is he? Yeah. Yeah, he is. "I am happy."

Harold's smile widens. "I'm glad," he says. "I am exceedingly happy for you."

The only problem, John thinks, is that Harold isn't happy. John's life is much better than he could've ever hoped for. He has a good job—a purpose. The CIA and the FBI aren't actively searching for him at the moment. He has wonderful friends, especially Harold. He has a baby on the way.

But Harold isn't happy. Harold might be happy for him, but Harold isn't happy for himself. And John doesn't know how to fix that.

He'd like to be the one that makes Harold happy. If he could give Harold even a fraction of the joy Harold has helped him achieve, it would be wonderful. But he doesn't think this is something he can do.

John isn't somebody who heals. He neutralizes threats. He rescues people now, but he's not the one who puts their pieces back together in the messy aftermath. He saves them, but what he brings them is relief, not joy.

When he bandages a wound, it's temporary. Someone else slides the fractured bones back into place, someone else fixes the internal bleeding and stitches the hole properly shut, someone else does the healing.

But dammit, he would try for Harold. He'd fail, of course—Harold, despite his fear of hospitals and his aversion to blood, is the healer between the two of them. Only Harold will ever be able to heal Harold. But John would hold down the gauze as long as he could, would fill the bloody hole with superglue or turn the belt into the tourniquet or shove the gutted ink pen tube into the deflated lung if it would help Harold Finch.

None of those can help what's been done to Harold's heart.

* * *

"Who taught you how to cook?" Harold asks, halfway through the meal. "If you don't mind answering, of course."

"A few people," John replies. "My mom and my grandma, a few foster parents...mostly me, though. I wanted to impress this girl back in high school. Her name was Clara. And I really didn't want it to be a disaster. Checked out cookbooks from the library. Practiced for weeks. By the time I was good enough, she'd found another boyfriend."

"Ouch," Harold says. Then, his expression turns wistful. "My father taught me a little. He didn't know very much—just enough to keep me fed, until he started to forget all of it."

Forget all— _damn_. "Memory loss."

"Yep," Harold quietly says. "Dementia. Early-onset. I was just a child when he started to forget things. I thought at first he was just too busy, he was just distracted, or..."

"But you were smart," John says, gently. "You knew something was wrong."

"I did," Harold says. He sets down his fork, and folds his hands on the table. "John, you were wondering why I chose not to have children a while back—there's your answer. I didn't want to risk putting a child through what I went through: Watching a parent die slowly, piece by piece, over the course of _years_ , until one day I didn't even recognize my own child. And then having them go on to experience the same fate."

All of John's possible responses seem wrong—what do you even say to that? What the hell do you _say_ when someone tells you this?

"My dad was a wonderful man. He was so kind, so loving, so generous. He would've given a stranger the clothes off his back if they'd needed them. He never would've hurt anybody. He didn't deserve—" Harold's voice cracks. "— _that_."

Harold sighs. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring everything down. I shouldn't have accepted your invitation; I'm poor company tonight, I'm afraid."

John's first impulse is to say, _You're never poor company_ , but they're both too cynical for that one, both too aware that Harold can be a prickly asshole sometimes. Or maybe, _Hey, I was talking to the kid about my inevitable violent death before you got here_ , but that one won't go over well at all.

Then, the baby moves, and, since Harold's mood always seems to brighten when John brings them up, he says, "Well, the alternative was dinner with someone who keeps kicking me in the gut." He pats his belly, and, after a moment, Harold chuckles. "Or Bear. At least you talk to me."

"That's a ringing endorsement," Harold says, dryly. "I'm a better conversationalist than a patricidal fetus or a dog."

"That's right."

Harold glances toward John's belly. "But they're kicking? Right now?" At John's nod, Harold asks, "What does it feel like?"

"Sort of like..." John focuses on the feeling, and tries to put it into words. It's difficult. Fluttering, something with wings, Harold and his birds... "It's sort of like my stomach's a birdcage," he says, "with a really tiny bird flapping around in it. It's weird as hell. But I kind of like it?"

"I wish I could feel it," Harold says. "Assuming that, of course, you'd allow—"

"Harold, hey." John reaches across the table and sets his hand atop Harold's. "You'll be the first person I share it with. I promise."

After dinner, they fix some more tea and head for John's couch. He'd rather go for a walk, but between the hour and Harold's fatigue, he decides against it.

There's something special about having someone you can just sit and be quiet with, he thinks. They spend a lot of time in silence at the Library, too, but Harold's usually typing away while John reads, or they're both lost in the pages of a good book. Now, they simply exist together, pressed to each other's side, sipping tea and letting the food in their stomachs settle.

He feels no need to fill the silence with words. It's a comfortable one, a friendly one, as warm and soft as John's sweater. But it's as fragile as a soap bubble. All it would take is one stray word from one stray thought to make it burst. He doesn't want to be the one to pop it, so he leans back and closes his eyes, keeping a steady grip on his mug.

Harold is the one who ends up breaking it. "It's getting rather late, isn't it?"

That makes John sit up and open his eyes. "You're thinking about leaving?" The idea of that hurts.

"You seem a little tired," Harold says.

John shakes his head. "Not tired, Finch. Just comfortable." He nudges Harold's arm with his elbow. "Enjoying some good company."

Harold smiles faintly. "You should probably get some rest nonetheless. You have an appointment tomorrow."

"Tomorrow night," John points out. "If I stay up too late, I'll call in sick, play the pregnancy card with my boss, sleep all day. He's been pretty supportive, so I can probably get away with it."

Harold chuckles. "And if your boss catches on?"

"Then I guess I'll get started on my paternity leave a little early?"

"Well—" Harold pushes himself to his feet with a small groan, and rubs at his lower back. "—I have it on very good authority that your boss also needs to get some rest."

"You're welcome to spend the night again," John says. It's probably not the best idea to invite the person he was fantasizing about earlier to spend the night in his bed, but this isn't about that. "I bought some more pillows. You'll have to fight me for the body pillow, though."

"I appreciate the offer, but—" Harold is interrupted by a yawn. "Actually, on second thought, I might take you up on it. Thank you."

"I'll go get your PJs," John says, giddiness bubbling up inside him. He gets up slowly, careful not to let on that his own back is bugging him. His annoying little backache probably pales in comparison to Harold's.

As they get ready for bed, John thinks of how...domestic the whole evening has been, despite all of the depressing topics they'd discussed. They cooked together, ate dinner together, confided in each other, and are now sharing bathroom counter space as they brush their teeth. They'll lie down together soon, sleep side by side on the bed Harold bought him in the apartment Harold gave him.

He never expected to have something like this again. Who would get close to someone like him? But then he met a fellow dead man who was as lonely and as disconnected from the world as him.

It would be nice if he got to kiss Harold, and do more with him. But this is much better than he deserves—a baby on the way and a close friend by his side. The kind of semi-quiet life Kara would've called depressing. Shaw would probably agree with her.

And isn't that a terrifying thought: Kara Stanton and Sameen Shaw teamed up together. He's not sure if they'd love or hate each other, but either way, the world would be burning down at the end of it.

Their teeth brushed, John and Harold head for bed. He leaves the light on for a while, giving Harold time to arrange the pillows to his liking. John has to sleep on his side now. His belly might be small, but the weight of it feels odd when he lies on his back. He hasn't adjusted to the change yet, even with the new body pillow supporting the bump, so he spends a lot of time lying awake with his eyes closed these days.

Behind him, Harold shifts and sighs.

"You okay, Finch?" slips out before John can stop it, and he rolls over to face him.

Harold sighs heavily again. "I don't suppose you have any tape I can put over my brain's mouth so I can shut the blasted thing up, do you?"

"Fresh out," John replies. "Sorry. What's on your mind?"

After several seconds, Harold replies, "Everything."

John tries to come up with a response, but before he does, Harold says, "So, you should be able to find out what you're having tomorrow. Any preference?"

"Haven't really thought about it." He knows what he's supposed to say, _As long as they're healthy, who cares?_ What comes out next is, "I have no idea what the hell I'd do with a girl, though," instead.

"The same things you'd do with a boy, I suppose," Harold says. "Raise her, love her, the usual. If she's into pink and glitter, give her pink and glitter, and if she's not, give her whatever else she wants."

"What if it's guns and grenades?" John suggests.

"Then you hide her very far away from Ms. Shaw, lock up your arsenal better, and hope for the best." Harold goes quiet for a moment, then says, "This place will be a childproofing nightmare, with that closet of yours..."

"I can always take that stuff back to the Library," John says, teasing, "but then Shaw would probably steal most of it. Never mind."

"Well, as long as you do something about it before she—or he—gets a hold of any _grenades_."

"Hey, _you_ were the one who stole Leila, not me," John shoots back. "And I really hope you have better plans for my kid than a cardboard box for a carseat and a playpen made of _books_."

 _We are going to **ruin** this poor baby_, he thinks.

"I may have acquired some things..."

Of course he has. John grins. "And by 'things,' I'm guessing you mean enough stuff to start your own daycare?"

"I had to be sure all of our safehouses were equipped with the best products available. We can't subject your child to something _substandard_ , can we?" There's probably a full-blown nursery in one of them now, too. He can't wait to see it.

"So this kid gets all your rare first editions for their playpen, then."

"And a wooden box for a carseat. With padding."

"Nice."

"Have you given any thought to names?" Harold asks.

"No," John replies, but now he is. He won't find it flipping through a book of baby names, he thinks. He wants the name to be significant, to be from someone who's played a major role in his life... "Joan, for a girl."

"Your friend from the homeless camp."

"Yeah." John nods. "Maybe call her Joanie or Jo. And, um..." Boys names. His first thought is Harold, but he doesn't think Harold would like that. Harold, Harold...wait. "Maybe...maybe Nathan for a boy?"

Harold gasps softly. Then, sounding choked up, he says, "He would have been delighted."

"Really?"

"You never would've heard the end of it, of course, and I _definitely_ wouldn't have." Harold chuckles. "But he would've been honored."

John falls asleep feeling good. When he wakes up, he's alone, a note lying in Harold's place.

_Apologies for slipping out without a word, but we received a new number this morning._

_I hope you slept well._

_\- H._

"Guess we're heading for the Library then, kid."

He's planning to eat the last two cupcakes for breakfast—if he can't have cake for breakfast while pregnant, when can he?—when he spots a yellow Post-It note stuck to the box.

_Eat something with nutritional value, John!_

_I will know if you don't._

The words "nutritional value" and "will" are underlined twice, and there's a simple drawing of cartoon eyes with black square glasses at the bottom of the note. It's adorable. It's dorky as hell. He wants to keep it forever.

Laughing, John fixes himself a smoothie full of fruit, greens, and protein powder, and takes it with him to the Library.

Midway through the briefing on their newest number, something drops on the desk beside John's hand. A chocolate pudding cup, unopened. Shaw very pointedly does not look at it, which obligates John to give her his biggest grin and say, "Thanks."

"Shut up, Reese," she snaps.

A brief smile flashes across Harold's face, but he—quite wisely—says nothing about Shaw's offering.

The fact that it's chocolate pudding could mean one of two things: Either Shaw guessed or assumed that he likes chocolate, or she's filled the Library with as many bugs as he has, and, like Harold, she overheard him telling Joss about his chocolate cravings. John would bet that it's the latter.

She fits right in.

"Still not throwing you a baby shower," she adds.

"Still don't _want_ a baby shower."

"Could we table the discussion of Mr. Reese's hypothetical baby shower until the third trimester, please?" Harold asks, taping the picture of a bland, bald white man to the glass board, followed by the smaller photo of an equally-bland balding man.

Ricky Parker, 47, going through a divorce. Despite his and his soon-to-be-ex-husband David's boring looks, both have lengthy, violent rap sheets, and are probably running guns and dealing drugs. It's anyone's guess whether Ricky or David is the perp.

And while Shaw gets to go out and do in-person recon, John stays in the Library and helps Harold dig through the Parkers' records.

It's not as bad as the last time he got forced out of the field. He doesn't have a bullet hole in his leg or in his belly—just a baby growing in the latter—and he isn't hiding from the CIA or anyone else. Harold hasn't said a damn word about the infamous cushion, though John's pretty sure that's what's inside the big, white box that showed up atop one of the filing cabinets recently, after Shaw made a comment about pregnancy-induced hemorrhoids leaving John "butthurt" about something.

But there's a difference between sitting quietly at home after a nice dinner and sitting around at the Library when they have a number. All he seems to do anymore is help with surveillance and offer input that Shaw often ignores. He's cleaned all of his weapons. He's cleaned Shaw's. He'd clean Harold's, but Harold is picky about people touching the innards of his precious computers, even John.

Every knife is sharp. Every gun has plenty of ammo. There's not much else for him to do to assist with the numbers.

He feels superfluous. Irrelevant.

"Are you sure there's nothing else I can do, Finch? Can't I break into their home—"

"Ms. Shaw's already taken care of that."

"—or watch one of them at work?"

"They're co-workers."

"Yeah, but what if one of them leaves? Who's gonna tail him?"

"Who would've tailed him when you were the only employee I had?" Harold turns to him, then looks back and forth between him and the computer. "Hm." He rolls his chair aside, and drags John's empty one to take its place. "Come here." He pats the seat.

John sets his gun down on the big, white box and approaches the chair, but doesn't sit. "What?"

"I'm going to show you a bit more of how I do what I do," Harold says. "You have some hacking skills already, I know, but a lot of your techniques are becoming obsolete. How would you like to be better?"

 _You're the computer guy_ , John wants to say, but Harold is trying. He's obviously picked up on John's frustration, and he's throwing him a bone. So John decides to take it. He sits down in the chair and says, "All right, Finch. Turn me into a hacker."

To John's surprise, it's actually fun. Harold has him diving right into hacking credit bureaus, credit card companies, and banks, saying he knows John won't be satisfied by easy targets.

Harold is _passionate_ about computers and programming. John already knew that, but what he knew was nothing compared to truly seeing it in action. Sharing that passion with someone makes Harold light up in a way that John has never seen. It's breathtaking. Harold loves what he does, and knows that he is very good at it. It's a joy to listen to him, a privilege to learn from someone who is such a clear master of his craft.

It's also hot, and John is weak and pregnant. He ends up ducking into the bathroom and getting himself off three times.

By the end of the day, they still don't know which Parker spouse is the perp—if either of them is—but they do know that most of the money the divorcing couple is earning is dirty as hell, and computers are much less of a mystery to John.

He probably couldn't hack anything like that on his own, but he's got roughly four months left to get the hang of it.

Ricky decides the perfect time to take David hostage is right before John's supposed to leave.

Harold is crushed. "I said I'd be there for every appointment."

"But somebody needs help." John squeezes Harold's shoulder. "Keep an eye on Shaw and the number. I'll be fine. David might not be."

"I'll arrange for one of our friends to pick you up afterward," Harold says, "unless I can get away. Maybe Ms. Shaw can resolve the situation quickly?"

At Larsen's office, it soon becomes clear that the Parker situation won't be resolved quickly. Ricky has hostages besides his husband, Harold tells him. Shaw is close by, but she needs visual. "I'm hoping I can find something to exploit," Harold says, "but I may have to head out there."

John swears mentally, stomach twisting. He hates it when Harold goes out into the field. "Do what you have to do, Finch," he says. "I'll be fine."

There's a new sonography tech this time, a short and chubby black omega named Tessa Rayburn. She looks vaguely familiar, and her eyes widen when she sees him. When Larsen steps out for a moment, Tessa whispers, "Holy shit, you're _that guy_. You saved my girl's life. Shelby Monahan?"

Shelby—oh. Mary Wallace, the painfully dull English teacher who knew nothing about guns and tried to shoot a coworker anyway. Shelby, with the long red hair Wallace thought was a match to her husband's new lover's. The day Harold had breached more of the few boundaries they had left and rubbed John's queasy stomach on a rooftop.

"Right," he says. "I remember her. How's she doing?"

"Getting better," Tessa replies. "Been kind of tough, you know? But..." She holds up her left hand, showing off a simple gold and ruby engagement ring with a massive grin. "We got engaged!"

That's some of the best news he's heard all day. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you!" she chirps, then her expression turns solemn. "Man, if you and your friend hadn't shown up when you did...thank God you were there. I don't know what I'd do without her."

"I'm glad we made it in time, too," he says. That was when The Machine was glitching. They'll probably never know how many people they missed.

"Shel and I were just talking about you guys the other day, and that detective friend of yours. We wanted to invite you to the wedding, but we didn't know how to get in touch with you, or if you'd even want to come..."

"We don't usually go to weddings," he says, apologetic. "Too much attention. But thank you. And I'm sure Harold will be happy to hear you guys are okay."

"I saw you had him listed as your partner on your chart," she says. "He out saving someone else tonight?"

"The fun never stops." The words come out sadder than he likes, and Tessa instantly looks concerned. He sighs. "I'm okay."

She tilts her head, eying him. "Can I give you a hug? You look like you need a hug, and I owe you one."

"You don't owe me anything," he says, and smiles at her. "But sure."

Tessa gives great hugs. She isn't shy about wrapping her arms around him and squeezing. At first, John doesn't react, doesn't know how to react. He hasn't been hugged properly by anyone in a while; a few appreciative numbers have hugged him, but those were quick. Tessa is giving it her all, and finally it clicks that he should hold her, too.

She's so tiny and soft, and he could snap her like a twig, but she's holding him tight and stroking his back, saying, "Thank you," over and over. It's...great, actually. He doesn't know how to feel in these situations, except for good. It's good.

Dr. Larsen comes in while they're still embracing each other, and Tessa pulls away.

"He was feeling a little upset about his partner not being here," Tessa lies, easily—is it really a lie, he wonders, as he plays along.

"Harold said he'd be here for all of these things," he says, and strokes his belly. "Guess his 'work emergency' is more important."

"I'm sure it's not," Tessa says, and pats his shoulder. "I guarantee, your boy will be kicking himself for missing out on this one. The baby's gonna look more like a baby now, and we might be able to find out what you're having. It's gonna be awesome. Except for that needle Allie's gonna stick you with."

It takes a second for him to figure out that by "Allie," she means Alice Larsen.

"Oh, I've been stuck with worse," he says, without thinking, and Tessa looks horrified. "Ex-military."

When they get everything started, John decides it's a good thing Harold missed this one. The needle is substantial, the kind that would make Harold pale and mutter, _"Oh dear."_ And he'd probably pass out when John turned down the proffered local anesthetic.

To him, it's nothing going in, a little sting and a little pressure. He's been shot and stabbed too damn many times for it to register as much more than your average needle stick. Only the fact that it's going in near his _baby_ bothers him. But Larsen and Tessa are both keeping a close eye on his squirmy little houseguest, and the needle doesn't touch it.

Doesn't touch _her_ , as he learns a few minutes later.

"Oh my God," he says, as all the months-old terror he'd thought went away comes flooding back. "Are you sure?"

"Not one hundred percent," Tessa says. "You'll find out for sure when you get the amnio results back, but that does not look like a boy." She grins at him. "Don't worry. Us girls are _awesome_."

He lets out a weak, shaky laugh. It irritates the needle hole in his belly. "What the hell am I gonna do with a daughter?"

He wants Harold there beside him so much it aches.

A daughter. That tiny blur of a kid that he keeps imagining, that's coming to life inside him, is a girl. Joanie. A little girl named Joanie.

God, Joan is going to _cry_ when he tells her.

They wrap up the ultrasound, and Larsen takes him to a private recovery room, where she leads him to a nice, cushy recliner. It's an unpleasant walk. His belly is cramping a little—Larsen tells him it's normal, and to let her know if it becomes severe—and he's starting to feel a little sick and lightheaded. Also normal, she assures him.

Sitting down is a massive relief. There's a TV in the room, but he doesn't turn it on. Instead, the minute Larsen steps out, he hits the button on his earpiece.

"You got a sec?" he asks, when Harold answers.

"Always," Harold replies. The sound of gunshots comes over the line—muffled, not near Harold. Harold mutters, "Oh dear," then, aloud, says, "But the situation is...delicate."

And Shaw's about as delicate as a sledgehammer.

"I'll make this quick, then," John says. "It's a girl."

Harold starts to say something, but is interrupted by a string of colorful yells from Shaw, more shooting, then her shouting, "Reese, can we save the geriatric pregnancy after school special for when I'm not being shot at by two losers?"

"Need me to come—"

"Absolutely not, Mr. Reese," Harold says, sharply. "You just had a medical procedure done. You are to go home and go to bed. I'll talk to you later." 

Harold hangs up, and John recoils at the sudden absence of the connection. He feels useless. Replaced. It's ridiculous. Shaw is a teammate, not a replacement. He's on desk duty, not fired.

 _And_ he just had a needle in his belly. Much as he hates to admit it, he's feeling it. The last thing he needs is to get into a shootout. He could do it—and do it well—but he shouldn't.

But dammit, it stings to be dismissed like that when he's usually the one jumping into action. He thumps his head on the back of his chair in frustration.

Sometime later, Larsen returns, and lets him know his ride has arrived. To his great disappointment, it's not Harold. It's Fusco. Larsen insists on taking him out to the car in a completely unnecessary wheelchair. When she and Lionel offer to help him inside, he turns them down.

As John settles into the seat, Lionel grumbles, "So I'm the last one to know, aren't I? And I had to find out from _Carter_. Thanks a lot."

"I haven't told Leon yet." John shrugs, unapologetic. Or Zoe, either. "And Carter said you figured it out yourself."

"Here I thought we were friends almost." Lionel shakes his head. "You know, all this time I've known you, I never had you pegged as an omega. Always thought you and our four-eyed friend had some kind of weird, codependent fellow alpha thing going that was miles above my paygrade. I'd look at you two and think, _I'm not touching that crap._ Alpha crap. That's the kind of thing that gets guys like me killed.

"Then you started looking sick, real sick, and then your belly popped out. Don't have to be a detective to figure out what that means. I got a kid. I've seen this stuff before.

"So whose kid is it?" Lionel continues. "Is it Finch's?"

John shoots him a glare. "Why does everyone keep asking that? _No_ , it's not his."

"Hey, you stick your nose in everyone else's business all the time. No one can stick their nose in yours?" He jabs a finger at John. "I guarantee that the first thing out of your mouth if I was an omega and I said I was knocked up would be some creepy version of 'So whose kid is it?' If Glasses didn't somehow already know, that is."

It would be, wouldn't it? "You have a point," John says. "Still none of your business, though. I'm a very private person."

"Private?" Lionel laughs. "Hell. If you're so concerned about privacy, why do you still have a spy camera sitting on my desk, pointed at Carter's desk, hm?"

"I don't know. If _you're_ so concerned about privacy, why do _you_ still have a spy camera sitting on _your_ desk, pointed at Carter's desk?"

It's still Carter's desk. She'll sit at it again someday.

Then, Lionel changes the subject. "You _are_ doing okay, though, right, Wonderboy?" he asks. "Like, Wonderbaby's okay and everything, and, uh, you're okay? Healthy? Pregnancy's going good?"

"Just waiting for some test results," John replies, absently rubbing his sore belly. "Had a big needle stuck in my gut just a little while ago. That wasn't much fun." Lionel makes a horrified face. Then, as an apology for not telling him about the pregnancy himself, John adds, "Doctor says she looks okay, though."

Lionel's eyes widen. "Wait, she? You're having a little girl?" He lets out a laugh, and claps John on the shoulder. "Hey, congratulations!"

John smiles. "Her name's gonna be Joanie," he says, unable to help himself. He's having a baby, and it's a girl. He wants to tell everyone, blather in the street to strangers about how happy he is about all of it. "After a friend of mine."

"Joanie, huh," Lionel says. "I like it. And I think you'll do all right with a kid. You scared yet?"

Should he answer that? "Terrified."

Lionel chuckles. "Yep. You'll do just fine."

* * *

Harold stops by the loft later that night. This time, instead of cupcakes, he brings a plush dog. "It's for her," he says. "I'm so sorry I couldn't make it today."

"Someone needed help," John says, squeezing Harold's hand as he takes the toy, and he steps aside to invite Harold in. "I'd rather you save them and let me handle myself than the other way around."

Once the door's locked, John takes a look at the dog. It's adorable, and made to look like Bear, with soft brown and black fur and large, pointy ears. The facial features are embroidered, and just the tiniest bit uneven, so subtly crooked that most people wouldn't notice. No tag, either—it's handmade. Judging by the barely-concealed nervousness on Harold's face, John has a pretty good idea where it came from. "Did you make this?"

"I did," Harold says, with a shy smile, and John's heart suddenly feels ready to burst. "Do you like it?"

" _Like_ it?" He's grinning so hard his cheeks ache. Harold made a toy for the baby—though John might keep it for himself. "You never cease to amaze me, Finch. Where the hell did you learn how to do all of this?"

"Well, I picked up the embroidery from YouTube a few weeks ago," Harold replies, "but the sewing?" He shrugs. "We had an old sewing machine when I was growing up. I liked machines, and some piece of clothing always needed to be repaired, so I taught myself how to sew. I haven't done anything more than tailoring in years, but I wanted to make something for the baby, so...I did.

"How did the appointment go?" Harold asks, and John goes over the basics as he leads Harold for the kitchen table. It's too bad Harold didn't bring dinner, but there's still leftover pot pie in the fridge, so John puts it in the oven to reheat.

As expected, Harold is pleased to hear about their former number's victims' engagement, and agrees that them attending a wedding wouldn't be the best idea. "If it were for an ongoing number, of course we would, but just for ourselves?"

"And I'll probably have a baby to take care of by then, too," John says. "Makes things complicated."

"Indeed."

Harold insists on seeing the ultrasound video next. He brought a laptop just for that, and quickly has it ready. Like always, Harold's eyes shine with unshed tears. This time, he actually dabs at them with his handkerchief. "Watching these never gets old. I hate that I missed it. But, I must admit, I would've hated it more if I'd gone anyway and someone had been killed."

"You would've hated the rest of it anyway," John says. "Needle this long..." He holds his hands apart, and Harold's eyes go comically wide. John laughs. "Finch, you are gonna have a hell of a time when I'm in the delivery room."

After a second, John realizes what he said. He's taking it for granted that Harold will be there for the birth. He starts to say so, but Harold speaks first.

"I'll figure something out, I'm sure," Harold says. "Unless, of course you don't—"

"I want you there," he says, firmly. "Please." He can't imagine facing the biggest moment of his life without Harold.

"Then I will be there."

They turn their attention back to the video. Something occurs to John.

"I wonder what happened to Mitch," John says, as they watch the baby move around. He has a feeling he knows. "The ultrasound tech guy. Remember him?"

"Hm, that is a mystery," Harold says, face a mask of deliberate, innocent blankness. Guilty as hell, then. John grins. "With his attitude and his habit of unwisely challenging patients' partners, I wouldn't be surprised if somebody said a few words to Dr. Larsen about his questionable behavior..."

"'Somebody,'" John repeats.

"Well, what was I supposed to do? What if he let his alpha tendencies loose with someone more vulnerable than either of us?" Harold asks, defensively. "We handle much worse than some brat challenging us over the paternity of our child every day, but someone who doesn't? That could seriously hurt them. And even though we're both emotionally equipped to deal with that sort of thing, we shouldn't have to. I don't particularly enjoy having people fired from their jobs, but—"

"Harold." John squeezes his arm. "I was just wondering what you did. He deserved it."

Then, more of Harold's words register: "our child." Not "your," "our."

Harold doesn't seem to realize what he said, continuing the conversation with, "I'm glad you think so. My tolerance for that sort of behavior from my fellow alphas has steadily decreased as I've gotten older—and I never had a particularly high tolerance for it to begin with."

"Ah, Finch, any day now, you'll start yelling for these alpha kids to get off your damn lawn, won't you?" His small laugh calls attention to the needle hole in his side, and John winces and rubs his belly. He's tempted to ask Harold to rub it for him.

"Who says I haven't already started?" Harold eyes him with concern. "Are you all right?"

"Little sore," John admits. "But I'm okay. Promise."

"You should be _lying down_ ," Harold says, insistently. "I thought I told you to go to bed earlier."

"I already did," John says, and fondly adds, "Then some jackass knocked on my door instead of using his key."

"You have an unborn child to protect and an alarming number of guns that you are terribly good at using," Harold retorts. "That jackass didn't want to get _shot_."

John wants to say he'd never shoot Harold, then thinks of the incident on the plane back from Hanford. "You might have a point there," he concedes, with a grimace. "Sorry."

"Go lie down, John," Harold says.

"The food—"

"I will make sure the two of you get fed." Harold very lightly pats John's belly, far away from the sore spot. "Go."

John heads to his bed, and settles in against a big pile of pillows, next to a pile for Harold. Somehow, he keeps winding up with more and more of the damn things. They're useful now, at least, with his back whining about his tiny new belly and Harold's body always complaining about worse.

Once he's comfortable, with a hand on his sore gut, he chats with Harold about that day's number. It wrapped up like a more violent version of the Drake case, with the divorcing gun runners declaring their undying love for each other before they were both carted away in ambulances. Luckily, no one else was injured—though, judging by Harold's expression, the whole mess might've hurt his brain a little bit.

"I fear I'm never going to understand people," Harold says, carrying a heaping plate of food and a fork.

"You say that like these guys were understandable."

"True," Harold says. "You're all right with eating in bed?"

"I ate a candy bar in the shower the other day," John admits, accepting the meal. At Harold's scandalized expression, he shrugs and says, "Pregnant. Bed's better. Join me?"

"If you insist." Harold goes and fixes a plate for himself, then gets into the bed next to John. "Anyway, people never have made much sense to me. And the Parkers are particularly bewildering."

"Do I make sense to you?" John asks.

"At first you didn't," Harold says. "But I think I've started to crack your code a little bit. Every now and then, it proves to be quite tricky, though. You're an interesting challenge."

"You're a bigger one," John says. "I don't think I'll ever get you figured out." He grins. "But it's fun trying."

"I don't think I'll ever figure myself out," Harold says, "to be perfectly honest. Although, I must warn you: you may not like what you end up with if you do figure me out."

A cold feeling slithers into John's gut. "Compared to what you might find when you figure me out?"

Harold sighs. "Neither of us are good men, are we?"

"We're trying."

"Yes. We might be missing the mark a lot..."

"Definitely missing the mark a lot," John corrects. "But at least we're trying."

"Yes. Which is more than a lot of people are doing."

The baby chooses that moment to aim a particularly strong kick toward John's lap—strong enough he jumps in surprise.

"That was a big one," he says, setting his plate on the nightstand so he can put both hands on his belly. Then he leans back and waits, pressing down slightly, and—there. "Gimme your hand, Harold. Now."

Harold puts his plate aside, too, and rushes to obey. "Is she—"

"Give it a sec," John says, pushing Harold's fingertips against the spot she'd kicked. He feels a thump, and Harold's eyes get huge. "There we go."

"Oh my God," Harold says, then repeats it, again and again as another kick makes contact. "That's...oh, wow. That's actually her."

"Unless something else is going on in there, yeah," John says. Then, the baby rolls over and settles down elsewhere, where the kicks feel fainter. "She's moved over now."

Harold makes a disappointed sound, and rubs John's belly. "No, come back over here," he says, but he's grinning like it's the best moment of his life. "Do you mind if I introduce myself to her?"

That sounds like it will be adorable. "Go ahead."

Harold starts talking. He tells the baby his name, "One of several, I must add," and that he's John's friend. That they don't have a conventional friendship, but it works for them. That he's going to be listed as her father, and he's "willing to answer to any number of paternal forms of address, if you'd like. Or Uncle Harold. Whichever you and John prefer."

 _" **Our** baby,"_ John thinks.

 _You are her father,_ he wants to say. _I want her to treat you like her father, because you **are**. You're her other father. I know you want to be._

But what if he's wrong? What if he asks, and Harold says no? He asked Harold to take her once, during the nightmare that was the first trimester. If he asks now, who's to say Harold won't say no to parenthood again?

He doesn't think his heart could take it if Harold said no. So he keeps his damn mouth shut, and listens to Harold tell the baby about Bear, computers, and The Machine.

Maybe one of these days, he'll ask.

* * *

The next few weeks are busy. For that, John's grateful. The amnio results are looming on the horizon, somewhere just out of sight. Every time they cross his mind, his stomach twists in painful knots.

Larsen said the baby looked fine, though. That Mitch guy said she looked normal. Harold had backed that up with statistics.

"Your baby's probably fine," Shaw says one morning, when she catches him reading a page on pregnancy complications in one of the books Harold gathered for him. "Stop worrying."

Then, she violently stabs two pre-packaged chocolate cupcakes with half-melted black birthday candles. The candles list heavily to the sides, like wax Towers of Pisa. Shaw lights them anyway, with a tight, "Don't say anything, Reese, or I won't let you have these."

He has so many things he wants to say. Why is she bringing him cheap cupcakes? Where the hell did she get birthday candles? Why the hell does she have them? Did she steal them from some kid? They actually make black birthday candles? Why the cupcakes? They look disgusting. Why would he want them? Why _does_ he want them? No, really, why are they there?

He stares at the cupcakes, confused. It takes a moment for him to remember that it's his birthday.

"Hey. Make a wish and blow out the damn candles. I don't want Harold to see this and get all Harold-y about it."

Is it a pregnancy cliche for him to wish for a healthy baby, he wonders, then decides he doesn't care. He wishes for that anyway, and blows.

Once the flames have gone out, he asks, "Harold-y?"

"You know," she says, plucking the candle out of a cake. "All sappy and disgusting. He'll get that look like he's so proud of me because I remembered him saying you'd be getting older today, old man." She shoves half the cake in her mouth, and, around her mouthful, says, "I bet he cries during sex. Does Finch cry during sex?"

"What?" Does she think they... "You'd have to ask him that."

Shaw gapes at him, not bothering to swallow for way too long. It's gross. "You're shitting me. You two haven't..." She finally swallows. "Dude. Finch is in love with you."

"What?" John's heart stops, then starts again, louder this time. His brain shorts out. Love? What?

"He's so in love with you even _I_ can see it. I don't pay attention to that kind of shit. I _hate_ that kind of shit. But even I can see the giant-ass hearts in his eyes when he looks at you. I feel like I'm gonna get diabetes from it." She takes another bite of her cake. "I really don't want diabetes, Reese."

"Maybe you shouldn't eat a pregnant guy's birthday cupcakes then, Shaw," he retorts, and he grabs the other cupcake and takes a big bite. He doesn't really want it—they taste like something only vaguely resembling food—but it's the principle of the thing. She can't just say that Harold's...can't just say things like _that_ without consequences.

"Men," Shaw mutters, shaking her head.

Harold's not in love with him. They're friends. Incredibly close friends...who share a bed every now and then. Who are pretending to be a couple at a doctor's office. Who can read each other like favorite books.

Harold brought him cupcakes after one throwaway comment about chocolate. Made a toy dog for his unborn daughter. Went to every doctor's appointment except one. Rubbed his sick stomach on a rooftop. Made sure he had good food when he felt too awful to handle it himself. Touched him so many times, even though Harold clearly wasn't comfortable with initiating contact at first. Told him secrets—told him about his _dad_ , even.

John tries to remember every smile Harold's thrown his way, hoping to see something—anything—that'll make what Shaw said true. The ones for the baby, he discards at first, then decides maybe he shouldn't. Harold loves the baby like she's his own, and she hasn't even come out yet. Who the hell loves a friend's unborn baby that much?

And there was that flustered comment about John's belly, too—what was it, about pregnancy being kind to him or something? About him looking very good? Harold had turned red as he said it. Did he mean John looked good, or that John looked _good?_

Before John can reach a conclusion, Harold arrives. He nods at Shaw as he says good morning to her, then smiles at John as he greets him, and oh. _Oh._ Holy shit, Shaw's right.

John sees it. The genuine delight, the softening in Harold's gaze as their eyes meet, the fondness written in the shape of the curve of his mouth. It's the way John tries so hard not to smile at Harold. He lets himself do it this time as he says, "Good morning, Harold," and Harold's smile widens slightly. "New number?"

Their new number is a teenage girl. Madison Rufus, 17, a dark-haired, chubby beta with a severe peanut allergy. Her salutatorian classmate Trent wants her valedictorian spot. Trent Welker, also 17, dark-haired, and chubby, but an omega, comes from a rich family and is a wannabe hacker. Harold tracks him down easily online. By the time Shaw gets to the boy, Trent is more than willing to hand over the peanuts he was planning to use to kill Madison, and has made a new friend.

"He seemed very lonely," Harold says. "Under a lot of pressure from his parents, bullied by his peers. I think he just needed someone who'd try to understand. So I listened to him."

Harold is such a good man, John thinks, and pats Harold on the back, letting the hand linger after. "Good job, Finch."

"He's so smart, and his parents don't even see it. How is that possible? Their child is brilliant, and he's _drowning_ , and all they care about is a half a damn point in a meaningless number."

Harold looks down at John's belly and says, "You'll never have to worry about anyone caring more about your GPA than you. If both of us are gone and that happens, we'll both rise from the grave and make your new caregivers' lives a living hell."

They wrap up the last of the loose ends of the case, and then Harold starts to look nervous, darting quick glances at John and biting his lip. "I have something I'd like to show you," he says, and for a second, John panics. It must show, because Harold quickly adds, "It's nothing bad. I just...come with me."

They lock up and head for Harold's car. After a ride filled with inconsequential but stilted chatter, Harold takes him to a small, private airstrip just outside of the city. The guard at the gate greets Harold as "Mr. Gull." And standing in the middle of the runway is a gleaming black helicopter, with a blue bow stuck to one of the windows.

"Happy birthday, John," Harold says, and John's heart does a backflip. "Please don't make me regret giving this to you."

John stares at the helicopter for a moment, barely comprehending what Harold means. Then, it registers, and he grins so hard his face hurts. "You bought me a helicopter?"

"Despite my reservations, yes," Harold says. "I bought you a helicopter."

For some reason, John can't help laughing. "You bought me a _helicopter._ Harold, that's...you bought me a helicopter."

Only the tiny, fading possibility that he's wrong, that Shaw's wrong, keeps John from kissing Harold until their faces fall off. He turns and hugs Harold instead, tight but careful, a delicate balance between showing how grateful and thrilled he is and not wanting to hurt Harold's back or neck. John's belly complicates things, but not too much; Harold's soft stomach yields to it easily enough.

Harold stiffens for a moment, clearly surprised, then _melts_ , letting out this tiny little sigh and leaning into John's embrace. "I'm glad you like it," he says, wrapping his arms around John.

"Like it?" John says. " _Finch_..." He loves the helicopter, loves Harold, loves him so desperately he feels like it might kill him. They've never hugged before—not properly, like this. Harold's so warm, so soft and firm and strong and fragile, and he smells so good and fits so perfectly in John's arms. John would gladly hold him forever. "You bought me a helicopter."

"I did," Harold says, sounding incredibly pleased.

The baby kicks then, and Harold jumps slightly, and chuckles. "I think you may not be the only one happy about your gift."

"Or she's complaining 'cause she's not the center of attention." John steps back, letting his hands rest on Harold's shoulders. "Hey, Harold—wanna go for a ride?"

With a smirk, Harold replies, "I thought you'd never ask."

They spend most of the afternoon up in the air. He shows Harold how to fly the bird, lets him try it out, while Harold tells him about the differences between flying the helicopter and his planes. By the time they touch back down, John's ears are ringing from the noise, the baby is demanding all the food in the universe, and he's feeling so happy he thinks he might explode from it. Harold is smiling like he feels just as happy.

Even if everything goes to shit later, it's easily the best birthday John's ever had.

Once they make it back to the city, they grab massive, overstuffed chicken burritos from one of John's favorite places. When Harold goes to pay, John spots an ultrasound picture in Harold's wallet. That's...lovely. Sweet. He hadn't even thought about putting a picture in his own. Maybe he'll do that later.

Now, though, he taps on the picture and says, "Harold Stork been showing off his future kid?"

Harold's cheeks flush. "Harold _Crane_ is very pleased about becoming a father."

John has a feeling Harold Finch is very pleased, too.

"It's very scandalous," Harold continues, "at his age, but oh well. If a pregnancy being scandalous could stop it, the human race would've died out eons ago."

By unspoken agreement, they wind up heading for the bench where they first met. Along the way, they're stopped by a pair of older women, one a white-haired beta and the other a gray-haired omega, who say they're one of the most adorable couples they've ever seen. John doesn't correct them, and neither does Harold. One of the women asks if they can touch his belly, and John lets them both, spotting matching gold rings on the hands pressed to his bump. He feels a stab of jealousy in his chest, a longing ache. He _wants_ that.

Baby Joanie seems to approve of the couple's attention, rewarding them with a flurry of kicks, and it's hard to stay upset for long. Besides, it feels nice to be treated like a normal pregnant man—like a good man—by strangers.

(Never mind that he probably would've broken the women's arms if they hadn't asked permission first.)

Once the women wander away, John notices Harold slip his phone back into his pocket, watching John with a tiny smile.

"Did you just take a picture of that, Finch?" he asks, pleased when Harold nods.

"I know what they mean when they say a pregnant person is 'glowing' now," Harold says. "You're beautiful, John."

John's face goes hot, and his eyes start to burn. "Thank you," he manages to whisper. Then, with more honesty than it sounds like, he adds, "You're not so bad yourself, Harold."

After lunch, they head back to John's apartment. He's been putting together supplies for the homeless camp he'd stayed in, and, with some hesitation, asks if Harold will join him in delivering them. Harold immediately agrees, and the nerves get stronger. He'll be introducing two of the people who looked after him when he needed it most to each other.

Thanks to Adam Saunders and John himself, the old building is in good shape now. There are more people there than before, but he finds Joan easily, in her usual spot. When he brings supplies, he always gives them to her, and this time is no exception.

"Also," he says, "I have some people I'd like you to meet."

With a knowing smile, she says, "I'm guessing this is the one who's looking after you now?" as he introduces her to Harold. As they shake hands, she narrows her eyes at him and says, "You're taking good care of him?"

"I'm trying my best," Harold replies. "He doesn't make it easy, but I'm trying."

"No, he does not," she says, looking satisfied. "He needs it." Then, she turns her attention back to John. "You said people."

John sets down his box, and rests a hand against his belly. Joan's mouth falls open, then breaks into a smile when he pulls an ultrasound picture from his pocket and hands it to her.

"Joan, meet Joanie," he says, and Joan looks up at him in disbelief, her eyes filling with tears. "I'm naming her after someone very important to me."

"John, I—I don't know what to say," she says. "Thank you."

Once she's finished crying and he's let her rub his belly as much as she wants, he and Harold help her distribute supplies. Several people ask to touch John's pregnant belly, and he lets them. As they work, he keeps an eye on Harold, watching for any signs of disdain or disgust, though not expecting any. He sees none. Harold just looks...contemplative, John thinks. Like there's something big on his mind.

In the car later, he learns what it was. As usual, it's something unexpected.

"I was homeless myself, for a little while, after I first left home," Harold says. "Until I was able to start at MIT."

"Really?"

"Yep," Harold replies. "I hitchhiked to Massachusetts, and I spent several months living on the streets until Harold Wren finished high school and started college."

Before John can ask for an explanation, Harold speaks again. "Are you familiar with ARPANET, and the hacker?"

"The one who's—" John understands quickly, and turns to stare at Harold, impressed. "—never been caught...that was you?"

"Yes. Among other...youthful transgressions." Harold sighs, wearily. "I've been running for a long, long time, John."

John tries to come up with a response to that. After a moment, he settles on one, and he reaches over and lays a hand on Harold's thigh and says, "And now you're not running alone. Not anymore."

With a big-eyed, hopeful look, Harold quietly says, "Really?"

"As long as I'm alive, I'll be there, running beside you." He smiles, and gives Harold's leg a small squeeze. "Always."

"I'd appreciate that very much. Thank you." Harold places a hand atop John's. "And as long as I'm alive, I shall be there beside you."

"Always, Finch?"

Harold smiles back. "Always, Mr. Reese."

* * *

A few nights later, hours after they've wrapped up that day's number (Kyle Myers, 48, alpha, caught on to an employee's embezzlement), Harold calls him back to the Library.

"I've been monitoring the lab that's doing your amniocentesis," Harold says, "and the analysis on your daughter was completed tonight. You'll probably get a call from Dr. Larsen Monday morning, but in the meantime..." He holds out a stack of papers. "I figured you wouldn't want to wait."

John swallows hard, and takes them. His stomach twists unpleasantly. "I don't know if I—"

"I've already looked," Harold says, and smiles. "It's all excellent news, I promise. No genetic abnormalities, no signs of any infection, nothing else that's outside of the normal range. She's perfect. And she's an alpha."

John raises his eyebrows, and he flips through the test results until he comes to the right line. _Primary sex: Female. Secondary sex: Alpha._ Wow. Their daughter is an alpha.

 _His_ daughter, he corrects himself. But maybe...

"Think maybe it's time to start thinking about godparents?" he asks. His heart begins pounding. What he's building up to has nothing to do with godparents.

Harold shrugs. "Your guess there is as good as mine, I'm afraid." He pauses. "I'm guessing Detective Carter will be her godmother?"

"Yeah, if she agrees," John replies. "And I was thinking I'd ask Lionel to be her godfather."

Harold's face falls. "Oh," he says, quietly, breaking John's racing heart. Dammit, he should've approached this directly, then. "All right. I think he'd be a—"

"Harold." He takes Harold's hand. "I don't want you to be her godfather..." His voice catches in his throat. "Because I want you to be her father."

Harold's eyes go hugely wide. "What?" he whispers.

"This is _your_ baby, too," he says, and puts Harold's hand on his belly. "Maybe not by blood, but in all the ways that matter."

" _John_."

"Without you, none of this would've happened. I never...I wouldn't have this life without you. I'd be dead by now without you, and even if I somehow wasn't? I wouldn't have this." He finally manages to look into Harold's impossibly wide eyes. "If you want to be her father—her other father—you are."

Disbelief fills Harold's face, and fear, but is replaced quickly by pure joy. "Oh, of course," Harold says, beaming. John tries to memorize that smile, wants nothing more than to carry it with him always—the perfect image of Harold being purely _happy_. "Of course I'll be...I'd like nothing more."

The joyous expression is short-lived, quickly turning to nervousness. "But there's something we need to discuss that might change your mind about that," Harold says.

John's guts drop. "What is it?"

"I have a confession to make." Harold takes in and releases a deep breath, then slowly, carefully says, "My motivations for asking you to continue the pregnancy weren't entirely for your benefit."

"You wanted me to keep the baby," John says. "I figured that out when you were crying over my ultrasound."

"Yes. But not just for your sake. I knew, of course, that deep down, you wanted the child; if you hadn't, I wouldn't have pushed so hard. But I..." Harold pauses for a moment. "When you confirmed that you were pregnant, I was _ecstatic_. I didn't expect to be. I would've guessed before that I'd feel...inconvenienced if you'd ever told me you were expecting, like I have when vital employees at my other businesses have announced their pregnancies. But I was thrilled—thrilled! And it didn't take me long to realize why.

"I don't regret not having a biological child. Truly, I don't. Sometimes, though, I have occasionally wished that I'd pursued adoption."

"Why didn't you?"

"The same reason I spent most of my life single—I was married to my work. You've seen how consumed I can get by programming. I spent decades devoting myself entirely to it. Days, nights, every waking moment. Only rarely did I ever sit back and realize that I was lonely, and it was even more rare that I ever thought that having a child might be...nice.

"And I suspect that I might have been wrong when I told you that I didn't let fear get in the way of becoming a father. I was raised by a single father who withered away before my eyes. Unless I'd met someone—and when was I ever going to meet someone? The Machine pushed me toward Grace, and by then, it seemed to be too late for parenthood, for either of us. I would have been a single father myself, and I could have taken my child down the exact same road I went down. So I refused to let myself think about it or want it.

"After Nathan died, I realized something," Harold continues. "I probably will not die of natural causes. Then you became pregnant, and between that and my realization, I started to feel free to want things again. One of those...well, I thought that perhaps you might allow me to have a relationship with your child that was, at the very least, similar to the one that I have with Will, or if I could possibly be sort of a second father figure."

"I meant it when I offered to let you adopt her," John says. "I would've said yes, back then."

"And I meant it when I said no. I am far too old to be a single father now, and with my...physical limitations, I'm ill-suited for chasing around a rambunctious child. If I were a single parent, I'd have to rely on a nanny entirely too often for my liking, as I suspect it would be cruel to push you to be further involved if you'd chosen not to be. But if we were co-parenting—even informally—I'd get to have that experience.

"And I wanted it. The sleepless nights, the dirty diapers, the terror, the wonder—all of it. Suddenly, I found myself wanting to be a father. Something I'd never really let myself consider wanting before. And I hoped that you would allow me at least the tiniest hint of that role."

"You said 'things,'" John points out. Harold was always so careful with the words he chose to use. "You wanted 'things.'"

Harold opens and closes his mouth. "Did I?" he says. It sounds forced and hollow.

"Harold," John says, "you said you'd never lie to me."

"Yes, well..." Harold gets up from his seat, avoiding looking at John, and goes to stare out the window. "I also said that there were things that I couldn't tell you."

"And you can't tell me this?"

Harold closes his eyes for a moment, then turns to John. "John, _please_..." _Don't make me do this_ hangs in the air, unspoken.

But he needs to hear it. His heart is hammering in his chest, so loud it's a wonder Harold doesn't comment. "Harold," he says, "what do you want?"

Harold turns away again, and takes a deep breath, then says, "You."

It knocks the air from John's lungs like a fist to the gut. One little word, and the world stops. "What?"

Harold lets out a small, broken sound that John never wants to hear again. "I'm sorry," he says, wrapping his arms around himself. "I never intended for this to happen. You have no idea how much I value our partnership, our friendship. I won't ask anything of you. I won't even ask you to continue our acquaintance, if you do not wish to.

"But you want honesty, and, in this case, I believe you're entitled to it: I wanted you to have the baby because some foolish, selfish part of me hoped we could be a family, or could at least act as one. And I hoped that, perhaps one day, it might lead you to develop feelings for me, as I already had for you long before you ever became pregnant. I hoped that one day, you might fall in love with me."

Love? But this is Harold. Harold can't possibly want John to be in love with him. John's not that lucky.

"I've fallen deeply in love with you. I tried not to, but I..." Harold faces John again, looking like he expects to have his heart crushed. "I'm so sorry, John. All I truly want now is for you to be happy, even if your path to happiness doesn't include me."

John tries to remember how to speak, how to breathe. It's everything he wants, all at once, and Harold's apologizing for it, expecting him not to take it. "I thought you were a genius."

"What?" Harold says, looking baffled.

"If you think you have to apologize for telling me you're 'deeply' in love with me," John says, getting up from his chair and taking slow, deliberate steps toward Harold, "then you really are as bad at human interaction as you claim to be."

"Oh." Bafflement turns to incredulity. "What are you—John, you can't be serious."

He lightly takes hold of Harold's arms, and smiles at him. Harold's mouth hangs open. "I _am_ serious, though," he says. "I just asked you to be my baby's father. Do you honestly think I—"

Except Harold really is that oblivious, isn't he?

"Harold," he says, leaning in, "I'm going to kiss you now."

Harold's breath catches. Voice shaking, Harold says, "I'd appreciate it if you would."

When he's thought about kissing Harold, he's always imagined something heated and frantic, tension boiling over, adrenaline burning hot between them. The aftermath of a near death experience, or perhaps the middle of one, with their hearts still beating for a few more precious seconds as they bleed out. The desperate crash of lips and teeth and tongues, their battered bodies crushed together, hands gripping each other painfully and wonderfully at the end of everything.

This is gentle. Easy. A soft touch to softer lips, no hesitation, no fight to stay alive just a few seconds longer. Just rightness. It feels right to be kissing Harold, to have Harold kissing him. Familiar, somehow, like he's kissed Harold a billion times even though this is the first, because it's Harold. Only kissing Harold could be like this. He knows the feel of the hand sliding around the back of his neck, possessive and certain but not demanding, because it's Harold's hand. The rasp of their clashing stubble. The occasional brush of tongue. The hint-of-salt taste of a long day, mingling with green tea and what is undeniably Harold. The soft-hard press of the body he carefully wraps around. Harold. Only Harold. Only Harold would feel like this.

John leans into the kiss, melts into it, following Harold's lead. _I'd follow you anywhere,_ he tries to say without words. _I'd follow you into Hell. I'd follow you into Heaven. Anywhere. Just let me, Harold. Please._

He hopes that Harold is saying _yes_.

They part naturally, leaning into each other, breathing together.

"I love you so much," John whispers. "You have no idea. How could you ever think I wouldn't?"

"Oh my John." Harold strokes John's cheek. "Do you have any idea how dear to me you are?"

"Harold." His voice breaks halfway through the name, overcome. He tries to hide it in another kiss, and another, in quick and fleeting little kisses that mean everything. "Tell me," he says, against Harold's mouth. "Please."

"Of course," Harold says. "I'll tell you every day if you'll let me."

"Yes." He needs to hear it, needs his lips on Harold's again, needs everything. "Harold, please."

"You really are quite remarkable," Harold says, punctuating it and the rest of his sentences with kisses of his own. "You've brought me a great deal of happiness. I never thought I'd feel this way about anyone again. I didn't think I could."

"You saved me," John says, trailing his lips down Harold's jaw, and lower. When his lips hit Harold's shirt collar, he can't hold back a frustrated noise. Harold understands, and undoes his tie, then tosses it toward the desk. It lands over one of the monitors.

Harold unbuttons his collar, and John takes advantage, nuzzling at the exposed skin, mouthing at his pounding pulse, grazing the jut of tendons with his teeth. Harold's breath hitches beautifully with each move, and he hisses when John bites down. "I find myself wanting to tell you things about me, to tell you—"

John nips him again, earning a quiet little, "Oh," and soothes the sting with his tongue.

"—everything about me," Harold finishes.

"I _want_ you to tell me things about you," John says. He moves back up to kiss Harold's cheek, then mouths at Harold's ear between phrases. "You don't have to tell me everything, but I would like to know some facts about you."

"I don't know if I can. I'll try. But telling people these things...it doesn't come easily to me."

"I know," John says. "Just don't shut me out. Tell me about yourself. Tell me when you're in pain—more pain than usual. Tell me when you're scared. Tell me."

Harold goes quiet for a moment, and John stills, waiting. Then, Harold says, with obvious difficulty, "'Harold' really is my given name. My original surname has nothing to do with birds, and I haven't used it in so long that I don't consider it my real name anymore. And I'm from the Midwest. Iowa. I grew up on a farm."

He wants to know where in Iowa, wants to know that last name, wants to know why birds, wants to know everything. But Harold is _terrified_ , holding his breath, faint tremors running through him. If John pushes too hard, he knows he'll lose him.

So John kisses him again instead, a soft, simple kiss to the lips. "Thank you, Harold."

Harold exhales, and smiles. "And I'd quite like to take you home with me, if you don't mind. I know you've been looking for it for a while."

"The tracker..."

"Did not find my actual residence." Harold chuckles, and trails a finger down John's nose. "I knew about the tracking device as soon as you placed it, and I always left those glasses at one of my safehouses when I wanted to go home." He traces his thumb over John's bottom lip. "But I'd very much like to have you there now."

"I'd very much like to be there now."

"Then let's stop wasting time." Harold kisses him again, soft and sweet. "We've done too much of that already. Let's go home."


End file.
